The Fifth Cellar
by everynowandagain
Summary: A recent university grad, Christine has no money and no plan. Her friend Meg sends her demo tape to The Fifth Cellar, a power metal band led by reclusive composer Erik Desrochers. After the abrupt firing of their frontwoman, the band needs a new lead singer. A classically trained soprano with bohemian sensibilities, Christine steps into the dark and flashy world of heavy metal.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is the first draft of a story I created for National Novel Writing Month. I've written 24 complete chapters and will need about 10 more chapters to finish. This is something I started writing purely for fun - I haven't taken this story (or myself as a writer) very seriously. I've begged, borrowed and stolen from other influences and I like to think that what I've written is a mix between Phantom of the Opera, This Is Spinal Tap and Cyrano de Bergerac.

I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik/Phantom, Nadir, Meg or Raoul.

* * *

Chapter One – Sunday, February 12, 2011

Stupid stupid stupid, Christine thought, fingers pressed to the keys of her laptop. In four and a half years of university, she had taken nine semesters worth of classes and yet none – none! – of the classes had prepared her for this:

_To whom it may concern,_

_I am writing in application for the Civil Engineering New Graduate position advertised on your website. With two years of experience working at Chapman Construction, I feel that I am prepared for the challenges associated with managing projects in the field of sustainable construction._

_I am a recent graduate of the Civil Engineering program at the University of Toronto. While a student, I chose courses that emphasized sustainable design and environmentally-friendly building. During class, I learned…_

Cover letters are such feigned pieces of writing, she concluded dismally. The whole job seeking process felt so artificial. Step one: write a cover letter explaining why you're the best possible candidate for a competitive position. Step two: entice the hiring manager into reading your resume, which lists a two-year stint as a receptionist at a construction firm, several undergraduate projects including my thesis and colourful stints as a performer. All of these experiences somehow add up to a desirable candidate. Step three: secure an interview, wear a starchy suit and answer phony questions by telling the hiring manager what they want to hear. And, after these three steps, there was no guarantee of earning the right to work for a living.

It felt daunting. And, with only three job applications out since her graduation ceremony last week, Christine felt like she was already failing. Christine had finished classes a month ago. Now, she was a graduate of one of the country's most prestigious universities, with a double major in Civil Engineering and Music (Vocal Performance). And she was stumped on her cover letter.

For the past five years, Christine had poured all of her energy into her studies and into performing. The double major she'd chosen to placate her father had demanded more time and attention than Christine had first anticipated and she'd needed an extra semester to finish all of the required coursework and projects. Where had all of her momentum gone? Christine had been mentally counting down to graduation for years, anticipating the "reprieve" that job hunting would bring. And then, moments after having the degree placed between her fingers, she felt the drive and enthusiasm drain away. And, like a clock winding down, Christine settled into a period of rest, hoping for a spark of inspiration or the ghost of an opportunity to twist the key and set her off running towards a new goal.

Christine saved her cover letter as a text file and closed the lid on her laptop, feeling the weight of her frustration settle onto her shoulders. As a student, she'd naively imagined that there would be a queue of employers, lining the steps of Convocation Hall, eagerly waiting to hire new graduates. Silly Christine.

The front door opened, causing Christine to jump from her seat at the edge of her bed. The scuffle of thick-heeled boots on the hardwood floor of the front entrance signalled the arrival of her roommate Meg Giry.

"Christine?" Meg called, her tired voice echoing down the hallway.

"Yes, I'm home," Christine answered, moving her computer off her lap and onto the bedside table. "I'll be right out." A glance at the alarm clock beside her bed revealed that it was just past 7:00pm. She'd been "job hunting" all afternoon and had sent out only a single half-hearted application. It was now past suppertime and Christine felt the rumbling stir of hunger and guilt mixing in her belly.

"Have you eaten yet?" she called to Meg. "I was thinking of ordering in from the Thai place down the street. I could use some grilled tofu right about now." If she ordered quickly, the delivery driver could be there in thirty minutes, maybe less. A nagging voice at the back of her mind reminded her that if she didn't find a job soon, she wouldn't have any money for take-out by the end of the month.

Christine padded down the hallway of her and Meg's modest two-bedroom apartment. The two women had met in their first year of university, when they'd lived on the same floor of their student residence. Despite the differences in their backgrounds – Meg was in concurrent education and Christine was a double engineering/music major – they'd become fast friends, bonding over a shared love of the arts. Although studying to be a primary school teacher, Meg held a passion for dance, which she'd inherited from her mother, a former ballerina. Likewise, Christine preferred her vocal performance classes to her engineering labs and volunteered to perform in as many of the university's recitals and concerts as she could.

When Christine entered the living room, Meg was standing just inside the front door and was shifting her weight from foot to foot and clutching a stack of envelopes in her hand. One envelope was open, its contents spread out on the coffee table. Meg's mouth was fixed in a half-smile and her gaze was frozen on the contents of the letter.

"Oh, you picked up the mail. Thanks Meg," Christine said, oblivious to her friend's reaction to the letter.

"I didn't think they'd ever answer," Meg murmured, her eyes staying on the sheets of paper. "I hoped, of course, that we'd hear back from them, but I never thought… and there it is."

"Who?" Christine asked, confused as to the source of her roommate's dramatics.

"You should read it, Christine," Meg said, gesturing to the letter. "It's addressed to you after all."

Christine's curiosity was piqued. She glanced at the opened letter, then looked back at Meg before picking up the sheets. Meg chewed her bottom lip nervously, pulling her lip piercing in and out of her mouth.

Christine snatched the letter from the table, wondering why her friend had opened her mail.

_Dear Ms. Christine Daaé,_

_Thank you for submitting your demo tape to Tabby Cat Records. Our team, including members of The Fifth Cellar, was delighted with your tape and impressed with your performance resume. We have selected you as one of five candidates for a position as lead female vocalist of The Fifth Cellar._

_Tabby Cat Records would like to invite you for a formal audition at our studio in London, UK. This audition will take place on March 7, 2011 – please call my assistant to schedule your audition. Details on audition guidelines are enclosed. All transportation expenses will be covered by our parent company, P&S Inc._

_As you are likely aware, The Fifth Cellar has been searching for a new vocalist since December. We have received over 5,000 demo tapes from vocalists in four continents. Upon final selection, the successful candidate will begin recording with The Fifth Cellar immediately in anticipation for an album release this summer._

_Should you have any questions, feel free to call my private number at any time._

_Sincerely,_

_Richard Firmin,  
Artist Relations Coordinator  
Tabby Cat Records_

Beneath the covering letter were sheets of paper with audition instructions and details for claiming travel expenses. A formally written letter, official-looking papers – were these the ingredients of a clever hoax? None of it made sense. Christine had never heard of The Fifth Cellar or of Tabby Cat Records. And she'd certainly never mailed any demo tapes. Wistful, Christine realized that she had yet to pull together a demo tape for auditions. Instead, she'd concentrated on passing the courses necessary for an engineering major. A career in music had been a pipe dream.

"Meg?" asked Christine, looking for an explanation, "is this a joke? Are you trying to jinx my job hunt?"

"No!" Meg said, her eyes wide. "It's not a joke at all. I… I sent in a mixed tape of your vocal recordings. I'd heard back in December that The Fifth Cellar – they're a British metal act – was looking for a new soprano. They axed Carmen Guidicelli in September and they've been using guest vocalists for their shows and tours. Carmen got a pretty shitty deal out of it too: the band fired her in a public letter on their website."

Christine stared at Meg, trying to piece together what had happened. Had Meg gone through her laptop, selecting recorded pieces from class and from recitals, assembled a CD, and mailed it …to a metal band?

"But why?" she asked. How could Meg have possibly thought I could fit into a metal band, Christine wondered. And why would she send in a tape without asking me?

"Because you don't want to be an engineer. Not really, not as much as you want to be a singer!" Meg answered. "And there are so few places where you can be a singer. You put your name in at the city opera house and with the theatre troupes years ago, but no one's called you for an audition. And why would they? You're a fantastic singer – one of the best I've heard – but there are so many talented people clamoring for auditions. Symphonic metal bands need classically trained singers. It's a natural fit, you know."

Christine stared at Meg for a moment, taking in her cropped hair and her heavy boots. Meg, who was studying to be a school teacher, thrived on metal music. She listened to dozens of bands, could rhyme off their past and present line-ups on a whim, and edited their Wikipedia entries. Beneath her business casual attire and motherly love for children, beat a heart that throbbed with the beat of double bass drums.

As her roommate, Christine had tolerated Meg's love for loud music by managing not to be home with her during the day and by keeping a set of earplugs handy in the evenings when she studied. For all Meg's efforts to entice Christine to the genre, metal music sounded like noise to the soprano's ears. And her friend wanted her to join a band and contribute to the cacophony? Absurd.

"A metal band? Really Meg?"

"Not just any metal band. The Fifth Cellar practically defined the symphonic metal genre, Christine. They've managed to fuse modern metal with the sound of a classical symphony without strangling the melody in juxtaposition. They've put out three albums in the last five years; their composer and keyboardist, Erik Desrochers, is a creative juggernaut. Please say you'll audition. If I could sing, I would've jumped at the chance," Meg said. "Please go Christine. I – it's a wonderful opportunity and I'm sorry I sent in a tape without asking, but I had to. I just had to."

"Oh, Meg, I don't know," Christine said, sitting down in an arm chair. She'd been looking forward to enjoying some dinner and maybe streaming a movie tonight. Making plans to fly to England to audition for a metal band certainly hadn't been on the agenda.

Could she go? Despite what Meg had said about classically-trained singers succeeding in the symphonic metal genre, Christine knew that it would be a stretch to adapt her musical style. And she hadn't listened to any of The Fifth Cellar's albums. Meg had said there were three albums – three!? If she was stand a chance of winning the position, Christine had some catching up to do. She suspected that Meg would be an eager coach.

The audition was worth a try, she thought. And a free trip to England couldn't hurt. The audition – and the flight – could be a sort of graduation present to herself. Since receiving her degree, Christine had done nothing but look for jobs and deplore at her employment prospects. Taking a break, while exploring a "career possibility" might not be such a bad idea.

* * *

Reviews and feedback are appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik/Phantom, Nadir, Meg or Raoul.

* * *

Chapter Two – Monday, March 7, 2011

Erik preferred to remain invisible during auditions. His mask... his mask always required explanations, explicitly or implicitly. Explaining the reason for his mask wasn't a conversation he wanted to have with each vocalist vying for the role of lead soprano. From his vantage in the theatre's upper balcony, he could watch each girl's audition, share his thoughts with the band through text messages and – best of all – the barricade provided enough cover to hide behind.

"Sarah Osborne, soprano, Brit." declared the screen of Erik's smartphone. Like a journalist researching interview subjects, he'd reviewed the submissions and tapes from each girl before coming to the studio. Sarah Osborne had been born into a musical family and had attended London's best conservatoires. A pedigree like hers could be either an incredible asset or an incredible annoyance.

Involuntarily, he thought of Carmen. The Italian singer's sudden dismissal from the band had necessitated the search for a new soprano. Carmen had studied music for nearly fifteen years and had a talent for technique. But her failure to work with the band or to contribute to the writing process had been a drain. Worse still, her antics in after-hours bars and hotel rooms had brought the band, and the record label, bad press. No doubt, she'd embark on a solo career and take her most devoted fans with her.

Carmen Guidicelli. What a name; what a personality. A family friend of Nadir, the guitarist, she'd joined the band in its early days as a guest vocalist, eventually singing on two albums and touring three continents. At first, Erik had been impressed with her talent and had dated her for a few months, much to Nadir's chagrin. Carmen had been as difficult a romantic partner as she was a musical partner: always demanding and contributing little. Once Erik discovered that Carmen was more interested in her career as a financially-successful vocalist than in creating music or forging lasting relationships with the other band members, he's ended the relationship and fired her from the band a year later.

Memories of Carmen ebbed as Erik listened to Sarah Osborne perform two metal ballads. Her voice was good, her breathing even, and her technique impeccable, but her song lacked power. Without gusto and grit, her range would be limited. Symphonic metal was large and bombastic. A vocalist needed a wide range and loud volume to be heard over the band and the orchestra.

The Fifth Cellar was a symphonic metal act and relied equally on the vocal strength of its lead singer, the prowess of its musicians, and the musical influence of opera and symphony. The lead singer was the focal point of the band and the centre of the audience's attention. She needed to be powerful, charismatic, and attractive. Sarah Osborne was attractive, perhaps charismatic, but lacked the vocal power to be taken seriously by the band or their audience. A pity; her long blonde hair and lithe frame would not have looked out of place on the cover of a music magazine.

Erik's thumbs danced across the screen of his smartphone, typing out a message to Nadir, who was managing the auditions on the stage below. "Good, second tier."

Erik watched Nadir pick up his phone and read the message, his mouth twitching into a scowl. After escorting Sarah off the stage, Nadir glared up at the balcony screen, knowing Erik stood there, watching. Nadir stood for a minute, his gaze fixed on the screen, before moving offstage to collect the next candidate.

Nadir was fond of Sarah Osborne then, Erik thought, suppressing a chuckle. No matter; while the band would choose a singer as a collective unit, Erik had the final say. His creative direction had won over critics, journalists, and bloggers, triggering high record sales and a devoted fan following. His newest creation, _Don Juan Triumphant_, was complex and demanding – perhaps too much so for popular consumption. This album would demand the listener's attention, wrenching the casual listener away into each song. Erik had composed _Don Juan Triumphant_ as a metal opera, or concept album. Each track would build the story of Don Juan, a scarred lothario, and Aminta, his innocent lover.

"Christine Daaé, lyric soprano, Canadian," read the screen of Erik's phone.

Erik recalled her demo tape. Christine Daaé had sung several classical arias, her voice lilting and twisting between octaves. She'd sounded promising. He leaned forward, resting his palms against the glass, to get a better look at her.

She was gorgeous. Her dark hair fell in long Bohemian waves down her back and her face looked as if it was lifted from a Renaissance painting. An angel, the perfect Aminta. Erik listened as Christine warmed up, nudging her voice higher and higher, showcasing her range and discipline. Once finished, she passed two discs of recorded music to Nadir, who eyed the labels critically.

"I'm ready," Christine said.

Nadir put the first disc into the player and set the volume. The sound of languorous guitar chords filled the stage. After hearing several metal ballads, the slowness of her chosen piece surprised Erik. Her voice poured thick and strong, each note like syrup to his ears. He could hear her take breath between stanzas, drawing in the oxygen around her and expelling the air as song. Her melody was flawless but her breathing needed coaching.

And he would enjoy teaching her. Thoroughly.

Even from above, he could see Christine was tall. Her loose dress was modest, but hinted at a curvy figure. And her hair; how he wanted to touch, to caress, to lose his fingertips in those dark locks. One song, and already he was attracted to her. Erik let out a ragged sigh. It would do him no good to be attracted to another lead singer. If the mess with Carmen had taught him anything, it was not to mix business with pleasure.

His face would always be a barrier to intimacy, he thought as the fingers of his left hand slid along the edge of his mask. It was no use. Christine's face was perfect, as if lifted from an oil painting. But him? The left side of his face was ravaged and twisted, hardly a face at all.

Erik tore his focus away from Christine's form, closed his eyes, and forced his attention onto her voice. For her second audition piece, she'd chosen an aria from Wagner's _Tristan und Isolde_. Choosing a German piece was a risky move; Christine didn't speak the language and the aria was a difficult one. Despite her linguistic limitations, Christine sang "Mild und leise" with conviction. Each note was clean and fell softly into the next.

Mild und leise. _Mildly and gently_. Erik knew _Tristan und Isolde_ well. When composing albums, opera was a primary influence and Wagner's bombastic operas, with their great crashes and lulls, were always inspiring. _Tristan und Isolde_ had been one of Wagner's great Romantic operas, the movements languid and velvety. Mildly and gently indeed.

The story of Tristan and Isolde was ancient, predating and mingling with the popular King Arthur legend. Tristan, a wounded British soldier, washed up on the shores of Ireland after a battle. Isolde, an Irish princess, nursed him back to health in secrecy and the two fell in love. Bound by duty, Tristan returned to England when he was well enough and, in a case of mistaken identity, Isolde agreed to marry Mark, Tristan's commander. After the marriage, the lovers carried on an affair until, when the Irish attack at night, they are caught by Mark. Oral and written interpretations of the legend pulled the characters forward through the centuries into the present day. Another metal group had recorded a song about the ill-fated pair, but to Erik's knowledge, no one had attempted a concept album using the Tristan and Isolde story as a base. An idea worth pondering later.

Christine finished the aria, her voice ebbing into quiet, one chord at a time. Her technique had been impressive, but her rendition had lacked the "awful sob" of a woman unhappily in love. She'd held a strong presence, but her performance had lacked emotion, a quality that was difficult to teach. If she was chosen as their lead soprano, he would need to work with Christine to cultivate the feeling and ardour he needed in Aminta's role. With the right voice, _Don Juan Triumphant_ would burn.

Unlike the other vocalists, Christine hadn't performed a metal song. Her choices had been honest and inspired. A glance at her attire – a loose, Bohemian dress, sandals, and bracelets made of wooden beads – suggested that she wasn't a metalhead at heart. That was easy enough to change. She had the voice, the charisma, and the raw "look" of a symphonic metal diva. Her breathing and emotion needed work, but teaching her was a challenge that piqued his interest.

There were two auditions left, but Erik's concentration on the process weakened as soon as Christine left the stage. He had chosen his Aminta.

The discussion with the rest of the band had been difficult at first. Nadir and Michael had wanted to bring two of the other girls back for a second audition. Their bassist Edward hadn't wanted Christine in the band at all, arguing that her hippie looks and odd choice of audition pieces made her too much of an outsider.

"She'll never understand our culture, our fans!" Edward insisted. "We need a metal femme fatale. A sexy soprano for the guys to fantasize about and the girls to gush over."

"We would also need our lead singer to be capable of working with the press and interacting with our fans online," Nadir added.

Damn it, whose side was he on? Erik had to stop himself from growling in response to Nadir's very real concerns. All of these things could be taught in mere weeks! The record label would ensure Christine had the right image, met the right people, and received media training. A voice like hers couldn't be crafted so easily. She would still require some instruction, but Erik was happy to assist in this capacity. Still, he knew better than to mention that detail to his bandmates. He wanted Christine; it wouldn't do to make her sound like she was lacking.

"The record label will be most helpful in acclimatizing Christine to the nuances of metal culture. When I began composing for our first album, I hadn't intended to become the frontman for a metal group either. I didn't know what I was composing at the time; I didn't know what I'd created until Nadir sat with me and listened," Erik said. "If I can adapt, so can she."

"You did come to me as an architect in need of a career change," Nadir remarked, a cheeky smile pulling the left side of his mouth up into a grin. Erik had met Nadir at the end of an architectural contract in Paris. Nadir had been a busker then, playing guitar to earn his meals while working as a barkeep at night. His deft playing had impressed the young architect and the two began to collaborate on what would become the first album for The Fifth Cellar.

Edward grumbled, mumbling a late complaint, but acceded to Erik's power as the band's creative leader. Each band member, with the exception of Nadir, had gone through a similar audition process and each had been picked by Erik. His judgment had earned them three gold and platinum-selling albums, tours in Europe, Asia, and North and South America, and solid incomes with a fourth album and a world tour to come this year.

"Michael, how do you feel about Christine?" Nadir asked. Michael, the drummer had initially favoured Christine's performance, but had remained silent after Edward's comments.

"She has a well-trained voice and obvious musical talent," he said. "Erik's right, she can learn the lingo and aesthetics of the scene right quick."

"And it doesn't hurt that she's bloody gorgeous," Andrew added. Andrew was the most recent addition to the group, providing backing male vocals and liaising with the public in Erik's absence.

Erik tensed his fingers at the comment. Andrew was the "rockstar" of the group, the one most likely to bring squealing girls backstage to the dressing rooms. Christ, he'd shag an open wound if he could.

"She is quite pretty," Nadir agreed, bringing the argument around to Erik's favour. "And young – younger than most of the lot we brought in. If she works out, she'll be with us for a decade."

A decade. It was plausible. Christine was in her early twenties. With proper training, she could maintain her voice – and her appearance – for ten, fifteen years. If she proved cooperative, she could have a solid career with the band. Provided that the demands of touring, recording and interacting with the fans didn't ruin her spirit.

Erik had noted in her application that Christine held a double degree in vocal performance and civil engineering. Clearly, she was capable of balancing responsibilities and meeting deadlines. Her interest in building amused Erik. They hadn't spoken yet, but the two were very much alike.

* * *

Reviews and feedback are appreciated.


	3. Chapter 3

I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik/Phantom, Nadir, Meg or Raoul.

* * *

Chapter Three – Friday, March 11, 2011

An express delivery man had arrived at their apartment early in the morning. Meg, awake early to teach dance at one of the city's summer day camps, answered the door, and accepted the package on Christine's behalf. Before leaving for work, she drew a smiley face on the outside of the envelope and left the package on Christine's bedside table.

Christine had arrived at the airport in the early hours of the morning. Raoul, a friend from one of Christine's elective classes, had offered to pick her up from the airport and had brought her through the door at 4:00am. The long flight and jet lag, combined with the news Christine had shared with her over the phone yesterday, had exhausted the young singer.

Meg gave her reflection a once over, tugging at the sleeve of her leotard to ensure that her tattoos were covered. After a final finger comb through her red and black dyed hair, she left the apartment, leaving her friend to sleep in the relative quiet of Koreatown on a Tuesday morning.

Christine woke up feeling groggy. Her mouth was parched and the inside of her cheeks were rough and dry like cotton batting. Her four-day stay in London had been sandwiched between two eight-hour flights over the Atlantic. After returning to Toronto early in the morning, she'd been glad to sleep in her own bed. Rolling onto her side, Christine grabbed her phone from the nightstand. It was 1:00pm. For once, she was grateful not to be working.

A text message from Raoul flashed open on her screen: "Good afternoon sleepyhead. Hope you slept well. I'll drop by later in the day to say congrats in person."

Christine groaned and typed out a reply: "Thank you so much for picking me up at the airport. Come by around seven? I'll make dinner."

Raoul and Christine had met in Christine's second year of university when they'd both taken the same Astronomy elective, hoping for an easy class. Raoul Saint-Denis had been in his final year of a degree in Finance and working part-time at his father's consultancy business in Montreal. The two had partnered for a moon observation project where they were responsible for recording the moon's progress in the night sky over a five-day period. Dutifully, they'd met at Christie Pits Park each night at 2:00am and enjoyed tea from a neighbourhood coffee shop. Through their five-night project, Christine nurtured a crush on Raoul.

Three years later, Christine still enjoyed his company, but her crush had abated somewhat. Raoul had had several girlfriends over the years, always bringing someone new when he met Christine and Meg for lunch downtown. Plunged into the world of finance and investment banking, Raoul had become more conservative minded. He now worked full-time at the Toronto office of his father's business, clocking 50-hour work weeks and earning a generous salary.

When Raoul had retrieved Christine from the airport, she'd told him that she'd auditioned and won a supporting soprano role in a British opera house. She'd been too afraid of his judgment to tell him that she'd been offered a soprano position in a metal band. What would he think? If she accepted the offer, she'd be wearing corsets and thick black eyeliner in a months' time.

Christine stretched and sat up, leaning against a stack of pillows. A package with a smiley face scrawled on its wrapper rested on her nightstand. The record company must have had it couriered by air to get it here so quickly, she thought.

As before, the record company had included a covering letter with a thick stack of attachments.

_Dear Ms. Christine Daaé,_

_Thank you again for making the trip to London to audition for the position of soprano with The Fifth Cellar. As we discussed over the phone, the band has chosen you as the successful candidate and the next frontwoman of The Fifth Cellar._

_Within this folder, you will find the details of your recording contract with Tabby Cat Records, including all related legal documents and an orientation itinerary. In summary, we invite you to perform as a regular recording member of The Fifth Cellar. As primary vocalist, you agree to record at least one album with the band, assist creative director Erik Desrochers with song writing duties, and promote _Don Juan Triumphant _with a world tour beginning in July._

_We at Tabby Cat Records look forward to working with you in the coming weeks. Upon receipt of your signed contract, we will release an advisory on our website and to the press._

_Should you have any questions, feel free to call my private number at any time._

_Sincerely,_

_Richard Firmin,  
Artist Relations Coordinator  
Tabby Cat Records_

_PS. As discussed, my assistant Mary Sullivan will be delighted to help you arrange your move to London. She can be reached by email at rfirmin .uk._

Her conversation with Richard Firmin had been brief. She'd met the record company executive after being called back for a second audition with four members of The Fifth Cellar: Andrew Warner, Nadir Khan, Michael Carrick, and Edward Gladstone. Erik Descrochers, the keyboardist and composer, had been eerily absent from each of her auditions. When she'd asked Richard about the absent composer, he'd told her that Erik was out of the country and was being sent tapes of each audition.

Christine had looked forward to meeting Erik Desrochers. Before leaving for England, Meg had coached her on the band's history and members. The Fifth Cellar had been formed by Erik and guitarist Nadir five years ago. Carmen Guidicelli, a soprano, and Michael, the drummer and a friend of Nadir's, had joined the band in its first year. The band's first album had been a "crit hit" – acclaimed by music critics, but lukewarm commercially.

Edward Gladstone, a bassist from the recently-dissolved Fugue of Fire, and Andrew Warner, a vocalist from the London conservatory, joined the band for its second album, which went gold in three months. The band's third album prompted sales for its first album, bringing sales of all albums to gold level. In The Fifth Cellar's first year performing, Erik Desrochers had fronted the band, appearing in silhouette on their first album cover, leading press interviews by phone and performing on stage behind smoke cover in live shows. In the following years, Erik's role became less visible and more audible. He performed at the back of the stage from behind a screen, declined interviews, and let Carmen and Andrew share the role of front person. Christine was certainly looking forward to meeting the reclusive composer.

Christine brought the contract package with her to the kitchen table and prepared a cup of tea to perk her up enough to read through the record company's legal jargon. The record company's offer was the first solid job offer she'd seen since graduation. In the week before leaving for London, Christine had sent out dozens of applications and attended three job interviews, only to be told that she was under qualified. The motivation to sell herself to engineering firms was fading fast.

True to Meg's word, The Fifth Cellar's music revealed classical influences. With some work, Christine would be able to learn the songs; it was the performance style she was concerned about. These weren't recitals or classical concerts. But still, an opportunity to sing professionally! Christine had been performing since she was ten year old – a career in music was her greatest desire. Joining The Fifth Cellar was a paying opportunity.

Paying opportunities weren't as easy to secure as they had been when her parents were young. Before graduation, Christine's father, a history major, had found work as a policy analyst in Montreal. There, he worked for several large corporations, guiding their staff through the political throes of the Quebec separatist movement.

After a second referendum was called in 1995, businesses became uncomfortable and most moved their headquarters west to Toronto. Although a slim majority (50.58%) of the Quebec population voted to remain a Canadian province, the damage had already been done to the city of Montreal. Many of Canada's English-speaking businesses had moved their head offices to Toronto and Montreal lost its place as Canada's leading city.

Charles Daaé moved his young family to the Toronto area, where he took another policy analyst job, this time with the provincial government, where he specialized in evaluating corporate tax rates. The Daaés settled into a two-storey home in Etobicoke, at the western end of the city. Six-year-old Christine adapted well to the move and learned English at a brisk pace. By the age of ten, she could speak each of Canada's official languages fluently.

Still, Christine cringed at the thought of telling her father about the offer. When she'd left for London, she'd given him a very different story, saying that she was attending job interviews abroad, while visiting a friend who was doing an international exchange in England. Thinking of the lie made Christine's stomach flip with nausea. She'd have to tell him soon – especially now that a tempting offer was sitting on her kitchen table.

Christine's mother, Anna, had been a musician, playing piano in concert tours across the continent. Charles Daaé had been patient, accepting Anna's long absences and frequent periods of unemployment. Anna's career had risen rapidly until she'd been killed in a car accident on the way home from a tour when Christine was seven years old. Years later, when Christine showed promise as a singer, Charles urged his daughter to reconsider and aim for a more stable career path. Christine had compromised with a double major, insisting that she would give engineering a fair chance.

Four and a half years, thousands of hours in class or in labs, dozens of projects, a frustrating job as a receptionist for a construction company – she'd given engineering a chance, hadn't she? Christine wanted to sing. The offer from Tabby Cat Records was a generous one: £100,000 per record and a share of the band's royalties on any recordings, merchandise, and performances she contributed to.

No, her father would not be pleased, Christine thought as she uncapped a pen and proceeded to sign her name at the bottom of the contract.

* * *

Reviews and feedback are appreciated.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Thanks to Abbie, my first reviewer!

I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik/Phantom, Nadir, Meg or Raoul.

* * *

Chapter Four – Sunday, April 3, 2011

Where was she?

Erik was pacing, a habit he thought he'd abandoned long ago, in another country, in another line of work. He felt a twinge of discomfort at the thought of his work in the Middle East. Memories of those years played in his mind: the cool marble floor of a palace, the dizzying heat of the desert, the gritty taste of sand between his lips, a whiff of sandalwood perfume, the sound of bells tied to a dancer's feet, the swirl of turquoise skirts, and a tug at the end of his lasso.

It's done, it's over, he thought in an effort to calm his nerves. He needed to be calm. Christine would be arriving for their first meeting. If they were to work together, she would need to respect him; and what was there to respect in a man who quaked at memories of the past?

In the last month, Christine had signed Tabby Cat's contract and had agreed to join The Fifth Cellar, much to Erik's approval. Her audition in early March, although unconventional, had won over the label and she'd emailed a scanned copy of her contract the next week. In another week, she'd made the move to a flat in the Wandsworth area of London. She'd met Nadir, Edward, and Michael at the record studio and had her first two rehearsals with them. It was now early April and Christine would be meeting with Erik for their first rehearsal together.

He'd chosen to wait for three reasons. The first was practical; if her rehearsals with the other members of The Fifth Cellar were lacklustre, the record company could terminate her contract and select another singer to fill her place, without Erik having to invest any time into working with her. The second was due to his own limitations; Erik wanted to ensure that she could learn the material and build an amiable working relationship with the rest of the band before working with him. Erik demanded perfection from those he collaborated with. Working with a vocalist still learning the band's repertoire would have been a frustrating experience at best. The third reason? It bothered Erik to admit it, but he was frightened of the young woman's reaction to him. His mask attracted stares, attention, and, worse, attracted questions from ignorant fools. What would Christine's reaction be? Would she gape at him? Sneak looks at his mask when she thought he wasn't looking her way? Pretend not to see?

His face was a curse. A curse that he hid from prying eyes. Using the cover of smoke, the guise of a stage double or elaborate coverings, he was able to fool the press and the band's fans. Michael, Edward and Carlotta knew that he wore the mask to hide something – wouldn't they like to know what! – from the audience. Only Nadir had seen.

A soft knock on the door announced Christine's arrival. Erik felt his pulse quicken as nervous energy coursed through his body, chasing away the calm he'd felt only a moment ago. She was here! He moved away from the door and stepped into the darkest corner of the room. She would still be able to see him, but perhaps the black mask would be less noticeable in the shadows.

A second knock.

"You may come in," he said, straightening his back and assuming an arrogant posture. "Leave the overhead lights off. I detest fluorescent lighting."

Christine stepped into the room, her eyes adjusting to the low light coming from the lamps and the grey sky out the window. She was wearing a loose cream-coloured lace and cotton dress with a lilac cardigan, navy tights, and brown boots. She'd pulled her wavy brown hair away from her face in a low ponytail. She hardly looked the part of a heavy metal songstress, Erik thought, but she was beautiful nonetheless.

Her eyes met his across the room and, after a second's hesitation, she began to walk towards him, with her hand outstretched for a handshake. She'd chosen to act as if she hadn't seen the mask; perhaps Nadir had warned her to say nothing.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you," she said, her voice shyer than her outstretched hand suggested. "I'm Christine. Christine Daaé."

"Erik Desrochers," he answered, extending his hand. Her fingers were long and calloused at the tips, like a guitar player. From his balcony vantage point, she'd looked small at their first meeting. Standing next to her, he saw that she was tall, at least five-foot-eight.

"Nadir says great things about you; he told me that you'd written all of the songs?"

"Yes. I have a studio in my home where I compose," Erik answered, feeling impatient to start their rehearsal.

"That must be really convenient," she answered. "My mom had a studio at our house in Montreal when I was a kid. She used to practice there during the day when dad was at work."

"Very good," Erik answered, curious about Christine's mother, but unwilling to delve into a lengthy personal conversation. They needed to use this time for rehearsing, not chattering like children.

"Perhaps we can begin? I've put some music out on the table behind you. Are you warmed up enough to begin? I can run through some scales if you like."

"Oh, okay. Maybe a quick warm-up?" Christine replied with a shy grin. "It's cold outside. Does it always rain so much in London?"

"Not during the summer." Erik sat down behind his keyboard, pulling the cover off and running his fingers over the keys, testing their tune.

Christine rolled and unrolled the sheet music in her hand before smoothing the papers on a stand near the keyboard. Erik played a slow scale, starting at the C note. Christine followed easily, meeting each of the notes. Erik repeated the process, a little faster, bringing the notes into a higher range. Again, Christine met each note. As the warm-up continued, Erik nudged Christine up an octave, into a mezzo soprano range.

Satisfied that she was ready to begin, he shuffled through a binder of sheet music, scanning the titles of the songs he'd written over the last five years. Nadir and Michael had informed him that she was familiar with the band's later work and could sing from their second and third albums. He needed to test her competence, so he'd left a mix of pieces from their first album on the table for her.

From his binder, he chose "In dreams I come," a romantic ballad about a ghost visiting her lover in his sleep. Erik had written the song as the centrepiece of his first album, _Strains from a Ghost's Orchestra_, but The Fifth Cellar's producers felt that the softer tune worked better as a supporting track than as a single. In later years, Erik had become more assertive in his artistic choices, demanding studio time to compose and record new pieces that the label had predicted would be commercial failures. With sales of the band's second and third album spiked in Europe and South America, Tabby Cat Records recanted, giving Erik complete freedom to compose as he liked. His latest composition, _Don Juan Triumphant_, was his boldest yet.

Christine took several minutes to study the piece, reading the lyrics with care and humming unfamiliar passages to get an understanding of the song's movement.

"It's meant to be sung by a soprano, but Andrew will provide answering vocals in the chorus," Erik explained. "Start after the interlude."

Erik began to play, plying a soft melody from the keyboard. Christine drummed her fingers lightly against the music stand, tapping out the notes to help her remember the piece. The melody was gentle and haunting. After a pause in the music, Christine took her cue and sang.

_Sunlit streets in the old city  
A dress of summer white cotton  
Two cups of wine and promises  
Spoken in the daylight_

_No more sunlight, only darkness now  
The stars and moon watching silently  
In dreams I come – to keep my vow  
Here you sleep, twisting in your sheets  
Don't let the tears fall in the night  
In dreams I'm here – tonight we meet_

The song continued through four verses, a bridge, and a repetition of the chorus. With the drums, bass and guitar added, the piece was easily eight or nine minutes long. The record label preferred three to five minutes for radio play. Anything longer and the audience's attention would wane, the producer had advised. Erik smirked, knowing that three of the pieces on _Don Juan Triumphant_ reached the ten-minute mark. He looked forward to hearing – and ignoring – the label's criticism.

"It's a beautiful piece. I'd never heard it before," Christine admitted, after Erik had finished playing.

Erik ignored the compliment and offered his critique of her performance. "Your technique is almost perfect, but you're weak on some of the lower notes; you sound like you're growling."

"Growling?"

"Yes, growling, rumbling, pick whichever adjective you like!" Erik stood up from the keyboard and moved closer to Christine. "And your voice lacks emotion. I should feel your sadness and hear the wobble in your voice when you sing about being parted from your lover. All I hear are the notes and the words."

Christine was still, her face blanking at the criticism. Erik watched her lower lip tremble, but she did not cry. Instead, the soprano looked in his eyes and, instead of arguing or asking for clarification, asked to try the song again.

"This time with passion, with despair," Erik said, choosing a softer tone.

They rehearsed the song a second time, and then a third and fourth time. With each rendition, Christine's grasp of the music strengthened. Her lower notes deepened into a purr and her voice gained power. Still, Erik wasn't satisfied, but rather than yell at the girl, he asked her to perform new songs. After five hours of rehearsal, Christine and Erik had run through every track on _Strains from a Ghost's Orchestra_. To keep her motivated, he'd also included singles from their more recent albums, _Reverie_ and _Nighttime Carnival_, knowing that she would have rehearsed these with the rest of the band earlier in the week.

"We've done enough today," Erik decided after the two had finished with "Call of the sea nymphs," a piece with a demanding mix of high notes and a fast tempo. "You've done well for a first rehearsal, but please practice at home. The fans will expect you to know every line and every note, and to be able to perform as well as – or better than – Carmen did. You're in a challenging position and I need you to be ready before we start recording the new album.

"I know what I'm up against," she answered. "My best friend is one of your biggest fans. She probably wrote half of your Wikipedia page. She follows all of your social media account and chats with other fans about the band non-stop. I know what they're saying about me: 'I'm a Canadian, I'm too fresh out of school, I don't have enough classical training, I don't have any experience performing with a band' and I don't care. I'm not here to fail."

"Then I admire your determination and I'd like to make you an offer."

"I've already accepted your offer, that's why I'm here."

"Another offer, then," Erik said. "I'd like to continue to rehearse with you privately. As a tutor, if you will. We can continue to meet here, or in my home studio. I'll teach you each of the songs and we can work on the material for _Don Juan Triumphant_ as well."

"A tutor?" Christine repeated, her eyebrows lifting in surprise. "I'd like that."

"Very well then. Meet me here tomorrow night at seven. Don't be late."

"I won't. Should I bring anything?"

"No, I'll have everything ready here," he answered. Erik moved the sheet music aside and picked up another folder to hand to Christine. "This is _Don Juan Triumphant_. The other band members will be receiving their copies in the morning. Read through each song before tomorrow night. I've included a CD with the keyboard music that I've recorded on my own."

"Homework?" she joked, accepting the folder. "I'll have the readings done before class, Professor Desrochers."

Erik held back a laugh, maintaining his serious demeanour. "Don't lose that folder. If even one page is lost and leaked to the web, the record will lose its surprise."

"I won't, I promise," Christine said, putting on her sweater and retrieving her umbrella. "And thank you."

"You're welcome and good night Christine."

"Good night Erik."

* * *

Reviews & feedback are welcome.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: a little more of Erik's backstory is included in this chapter. Enjoy!

I do not own the characters of Erik/Phantom, Christine, Meg, Nadir or Raoul.

* * *

Chapter Five – Wednesday, April 6, 2011

"Turn right on Geraldine Rd," Christine said, her voice subdued by a night of rehearsal with Erik at the record studio.

"Sure thing, miss," replied the cab driver, a portly man in his early sixties. He was a quick driver, but hard on the brakes, a habit Christine found that most London cabbies had when navigating the city's narrow side streets.

"Here's twenty pounds, keep the change," she offered, too tired to fuss about sorting through the British currency to give him the correct fare. She'd taken the tube from Redbridge Station, where the studio was located, to East Putney Station, close to her Wandsworth flat, and taken a cab from there. She'd learned the night before that the taxi fare for the whole trip was about 60 pounds, close to $100 in Canadian money. Instead of paying the full fare, she'd chosen to brave the London subway system and make the hour-and-a-half trip across the city.

The Toronto subway system had four main lines and 69 stations. With eleven lines and 270 stations, the London Underground was a veritable maze of tunnels, over-ground rail, and interchange stations. Thankfully, the London Underground Limited website offered a trip planner, showing passengers which routes to use. Even with a plan loaded on to her smartphone, Christine had still needed to ask for directions from the ticket inspector. The experience had left her feeling like a bit of a country bumpkin.

It's been a long day, Christine thought as she slowly mounted the stairs to her third-storey walk-up apartment. She'd left her flat at 8:00 in the morning to get to the studio in time for breakfast and a 10:00 rehearsal. She'd had lunch at the studio, then dinner at a pub with Nadir and Andrew. After dinner, she'd rushed back to the studio to meet Erik for another three-hour rehearsal. It was almost midnight and Christine was looking forward to making herself a cup of tea and getting to bed.

She could hear the dance music from the stairwell and, when she opened the door to her apartment, Christine's suspicions were confirmed: her flatmates, Samantha and Noelle, were having a house party. Again.

The coffee table and end table were both littered with crushed beer cans and half-empty shot glasses. The flat – which was a squeeze for three girls to live in – was occupied by at least eight people, most of them college students, all of them wearing dishevelled club wear.

"Hello luv! Would you like a drink?" called a man in his early twenties with a heavy Irish accent.

Ignoring him, Christine yelled for her roommates. Noelle stumbled over, wearing a pink and white polka dot dress that Christine recognized as her own.

"What are you doing wearing my dress? And why are all these people here? It's a Wednesday night!"

"Calm down, sweets. We're just havin' a lil' par-tay. Have a drink and meet the chaps," she slurred.

"I've just come home from a sixteen-hour day and I need to wake up in six hours – what do you think I want to do right now?"

"Quit yer job?" Noelle asked, not making the connection that Christine's part in The Fifth Cellar _was_ her job.

"I am NOT quitting my job. But I'm not staying in this apartment tonight," Christine yelled.

"Why not? You migh' fancy one of these –"

"I do NOT fancy any of these drunken students. I am LEAVING this apartment now and moving out by next week. You and Samantha can pay the rent on your own. I can't live with irresponsible, disgusting, thieving roommates."

"Disgusting? You're disgusting!" Samantha declared, hearing Christine's rant. "Get the fuck out, we don't want you here."

"I'm doing just that," Christine declared, running to her room to back a duffel bag with clothes, toiletries, and her laptop.

Five minutes later, she was sitting on the front step of the Chinese restaurant beneath her apartment, cursing her decision to find a place to stay using an online classifieds website. It had rained earlier that night and the cement step was making her bottom cold and damp. Did it ever stop raining on this stupid island? Christine was cold, exhausted, angry, and almost 6,000 kilometres from home.

Fumbling in her purse, she retrieved her cellphone and scrolled through the few contacts she had saved since buying the phone on her first day in England. She had the phone numbers of the record company, two local cab services, a handful of delivery restaurants, her flatmates, her bandmates, her father, Raoul, and Meg. With the time difference, Meg and Raoul would be finishing their suppers and settling in for the evening. Still, Christine didn't want to bother either of them with her roommate troubles. What could either of them do to help? She'd only worry them.

Christine paused over Erik's phone number. She'd seen him less than two hours ago. The two had established a truce of sorts at their first meeting, but he'd remained cool, professional, and often demanding at each of their private rehearsals. Going to Erik for help would mean admitting to him that she needed help, something she wasn't comfortable doing just yet. Scrolling further down the list, she paused again at Nadir's phone number. The guitarist had founded the band with Erik, but shared none of his friend's aloofness. In the last two weeks, he'd taken the lead in inviting Christine out to lunch and touring her through the city.

It was worth a try, Christine thought, swallowing her embarrassment and hitting the call button on her phone.

"Hello?" Nadir answered, sounding alert, which was a good sign.

"Hi, Nadir – it's Christine. I'm, well, I'm–"

"Are you alright? Did you get lost on the Tube? Where are you?"

"I'm okay. I'm at home," she began. "Well, in front of my home. I had a fight with my roommates, they're having their third house party this week, and I don't really know anyone in London, except you guys and I was wondering if I could sleep on your couch tonight."

"Spat with your flatmates? I hope they didn't give you too much trouble. I can put you up on my couch for the night, it's no problem."

"Thank you Nadir! I really appreciate it. Just – erm – where do you live again? I can take a cab over."

"No sense in wasting 50 quid to hire a cabbie," Nadir interjected. "You're in Wandsworth, right? I'll bring my car around and fetch you right quick. You must be knackered."

"Knackered?" Christine asked. She'd been in London for less than a month and was still catching up on British slang and colloquialisms.

"Tired," Nadir explained.

"Oh, yes, tired. And thinking about looking for a new place makes it worse."

Nadir laughed at the other end of the line and promised to ask a friend of his who rented rooms if he had any places open in the north-east end of the city, closer to Tabby Cat's studio. Christine gave him her address and he promised to pick her up at a nearby coffee shop in half an hour.

After hanging up the phone, Christine's spirits had lifted some. She was still angry with Samantha and Noelle and frustrated at the prospect of looking for a new place to live. All said, the roommate situation gave her an excuse to find a flatshare closer to the studio. The two-hour commute by subway during rush hour was frustrating at best. Depending on the time of day, she would be standing shoulder-to-shoulder with construction workers and hospital employees starting early shifts, business men and women heading to the office for the day, students on their way to an afternoon class, or restaurant and cleaning staff taking night shifts.

Slinging her duffel bag over her shoulder, Christine walked over to the 24-hour coffee shop a couple blocks away from her flat. The night time air was cool and the brisk walk to the café helped to boost Christine's energy level and calm her nerves. The streets of her residential neighbourhood were peaceful – most of her neighbours seemed to work nine-to-five office jobs and had settled in hours ago – and Christine found herself enjoying the clean smell of the city after the rain.

In the coffee shop, or "coffeehouse" as Nadir had called it, Christine ordered a cup of decaffeinated green tea and a couple pieces of toast with jam. She made herself comfortable at a table, nibbling at her toast and waiting for her tea to cool. Again, she debated giving Meg a call, but decided not to worry her friend. After she finished her toast, she picked up her phone and began to compose a short email.

_Meg,_

_Hope your job hunt is going well. I've been rehearsing with the band every day for the last week. We go on break for a couple days after tomorrow and then we'll start recording the new album on Monday. I'd ask you to come for a visit, but I know the flights are expensive._

_My new roommates nowhere near as awesome as you. Actually, they're downright awful. I'm heading to one of my bandmates' houses now to sleep on his couch and I'll start looking for a new place on my days off. I can explain better by phone. Can I give you a call after rehearsal (5:00pm my time, 1:00pm your time)? _

_I miss you Megster, _

_Christine._

After the email was sent, Christine turned her attention to finishing her tea. As promised, Nadir arrived a few minutes later, car keys in hand. He was dressed casually, wearing a pair of worn grey jeans, a black t-shirt with The Fifth Cellar's logo, and a black leather jacket. Christine stood up to greet him and Nadir walked to her table, pulling the young woman into a tight hug and picking up her duffel bag.

"Rough night?"

"You bet. I'm looking forward to getting acquainted with your couch," she answered. "Thanks for coming to get me. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"My pleasure. What kind of British gentleman would I be if I didn't rescue a lady in distress?" he teased.

"Aw Nadir, I'm serious," she answered, following her friend out to his car. "I hardly know anyone here and London is huge and confusing."

"You just need to get out a bit more," Nadir suggested as he unlocked his car and tossed Christine's bag into the backseat. "Stop spending all your evenings with Erik and have a bit of fun."

"How'd you know about our tutoring sessions? I didn't think he'd mentioned it to the rest of the band."

Nadir settled into the front seat of the car and turned the key in the ignition before replying, "I know that Erik can seem a bit peculiar. He's always kept to himself, since before we met, I think. But we've known each other for years and I'm one of the few friends he's got, although I'm sure the other gents in the band would like him better if he'd ease up a bit. Point is, he can't keep secrets from me, try as he might."

Christine raised an eyebrow in surprise. Erik, peculiar? That was an understatement. She'd only seen him at their private tutoring sessions, never with the rest of the band, and even in their private sessions, he kept the lights low and refused to talk about anything besides the music they were practicing. And then there was his mask; Christine wondered why he wore the black covering over the left side of his face from forehead to lip. Despite her curiosity, she wasn't prepared to ask Erik why he wore the mask. If he wanted to cover half of his face, that was his business. If he'd gone to the trouble of hiding the left side of his face, he obviously didn't want that part of his body displayed to others – visually or verbally. Still, it might be easier to ask Nadir, at least to gain a rough understanding.

"Can I ask you something Nadir – something about Erik?"

"About his mask you mean?" he answered, keeping his tone light and his eyes on the road ahead of them.

"Yes. Why does he wear it?" she asked, unsure of what else to say. "And…how should I approach him about it? I've been pretending not to see it, but is there a more… polite... way? He's been a good teacher and I don't want to offend –"

"I don't think you've offended him, Christine," Nadir said. "He seems to enjoy working with you, which is more than I can say for his working relationship with some of the _other_ band members. You'll need to patient with him. He's worn the mask since he was a child and it's caused him nothing but trouble."

"Since he was a child?"

"He was born with a facial deformity. I've only seen beneath his mask once, and he's not a handsome chap, Christine. Still, if people had perhaps been kinder, he might have had an easier go of it. It's not my story to tell, really. But I can say for certain that he abhors going out in public and meeting new people. If it wasn't absolutely necessary, I don't think he'd perform at all. But it's impossible to convince a record company to sign you to produce whatever kind of music you want while exempting you from touring.

"What I'm getting at, Christine, is that you're doing everything right. You haven't called attention to the mask or asked him any uncomfortable questions. You've agreed to work with him on his terms, which must be exhausting for you, I know. And, most important of all, you're treating him like a person."

Christine was quiet for several minutes, choosing to gaze absently out the window at the blur of traffic lights and street signs. If Nadir said that she was doing everything right, why did she still feel like Erik barely tolerated her? And why did she feel a twinge of curiosity to see what was hidden beneath his mask?

"When did you meet Erik?" she asked, trying to avoid the awkward topic of his mask while still hoping to learn more about her mysterious tutor.

"When? About seven years ago. He was an architect then, and looking for a new line of work," Nadir began, launching into a background of how the two of them had met outside the Paris Opera House. Erik had been working on a project to strengthen the building's foundations, which had been dug deep enough to hit water and had caused headaches for the building's managers through the years. Nadir had been working in the theatre as an usher, but the two met while Nadir was busking outside with his guitar.

By the time they reached Nadir's flat, Christine was half-asleep in the car, her energy flagging. Nadir set out blankets and a pillow on his living room couch and Christine flopped down onto the soft surface and fell asleep, clothes on and teeth unbrushed.


	6. Chapter 6

I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik/Phantom, Meg, Nadir or Raoul.

A/N: Thanks again to my reviewers Abbie, Guest and kpmindc. Your encouraging messages make my day. :) For those who are curious, the song lyrics used in this fic are all original, and all written by myself and a good friend of mine. I don't have music to go with these - I'm a drummer, not a composer - so it's just the lyrics for now.

* * *

Chapter Six – Monday, April 11, 2011

They'd been in the studio for six hours and had only recorded a single track, "Vagabond," the third song on the album. The cramped quarters and the presence of all six band members, eight backing musicians, four supporting vocalists, the producer and his assistant, the record company's representative, and the sound mixer were tearing at Erik's fraying patience. Their incompetence was driving him mad. Every hour in the studio, with all of these people, was torturous for the composer.

Richard Firmin, their business manager and liaison with Tabby Cat Records, had coached the team to grant Erik a wide berth and to refrain from asking about his mask. The musicians had obeyed Richard's directions, but not in spirit. He'd caught the violinist and two of the choir girls staring his way, earning each of them scowls from Erik. To her credit, Christine had also given the offending musicians a sharp glance and had urged everyone to stay on task, a more subtle reaction than Erik might have chosen. The girl was proving to be a good fit with the band. Already, she'd learned each of the ten tracks on the album and had brought in some of her own suggestions for lyrics and harmonies, dispelling some of Edward's earlier misconceptions about her ability as a performer.

Andrew, whose role in the album's recording was quite limited, was lounging on a sofa in the corner of the studio, eyeing Christine with interest. Erik pulled out his earpiece and fought the urge to mar Andrew's pretty face with a broken nose.

"Is there something wrong?" Richard asked, noticing Erik's missing earpiece.

"The choir is off-key, again!" Erik said, reaching for an excuse. "Let's start again."

Nadir and Edward groaned audibly, shifting their guitars on their straps. Michael held up his drumsticks, complaining that his wrists were getting sore from repeating the same drum solos over and over.

"One last time," Richard suggested, by way of compromise. "Erik?"

"Fine. From the beginning, and on-key this time."

The choir girls shifted, looking back and forth between each other, trying to identify the culprit in their ranks. Nadir shrugged and readied himself for his cue.

Christine remained standing, headphones pushing her hair away from her face. Her green eyes met his and she nodded to say that she was ready. Erik rolled his shoulders and waited for the cue from the producer before bringing his fingertips to the keyboard to begin playing "For a Northern girl."

_A chill wind shakes the treetops  
Sending needles to the frozen ground  
Weak souls fear the cold air  
In the snow, her feet make no sound _

Erik's voice joined hers for the song's bridge, his serenade rich and his voice filling the room without the help of the microphones or earpieces.

_Cheeks pink with summer's warmth (like the sun)  
Eyes deep and grey, like ice on the river (on the river)  
She'll thaw your heart by the fire (watch me run)  
Was that a shake of delight or a shiver? (I quiver)_

_For a Northern girl, I'd give my heart for her touch  
For a Northern girl, turn by back on the life I've led_

Taking a breath between stanzas, Erik noticed Andrew's intense concentration. The vocalist was listening to Erik's rendition of the song, committing note and breath to memory. Outside the studio, Andrew would take Erik's place, singing his songs on the stage, answering questions from his fans in the media. His face, his perfect face granted Andrew every opportunity.

Erik had been cursed with half of a face. The right side of his face could have been called handsome. He had a masculine jaw line and strong, high cheekbones that underscored eyes the colour of polished iron. His hair was a deep brown, like black coffee, and reached past his shoulders when it wasn't tied back. Erik had learned long ago that having longer hair made his mask less noticeable from a distance. One more curtain to hide his face from prying eyes. Under the mask, the left side of his face was ravaged and twisted into a vicious parody of flesh. On his worst days, Erik wished that his whole face had been ruined, so he might never have known what his face could have looked like had he been born with an unspoilt visage.

Erik finished the song, slowing his press of the keys for the final melody. Beside him, Christine had backed away from the microphone, her arms hanging at her sides and her posture slouched with fatigue. She was looking at him.

"Well?" asked the producer's assistant, Joseph Beckett, a graduate student at the local arts school who was interning with Tabby Cat Records for a year.

"Perfect," Erik said, nodding at Christine. "It was perfect."

"Bloody well right," agreed Richard. "I can understand why you weren't keen on shortening the track. We can mix another version for the radio if we have to. Let's keep up this pace. We've got another week of studio time to finish recording this album."

Erik chose to ignore Richard's comment about a radio version of 'For a Northern girl.' _Don Juan Triumphant_ hadn't been composed for the radio. It was meant to be listened to as a whole album, not as a collection of single tracks. But with more and more popular music being bought and played digitally, keeping an album together in a casual listener's playlist was a futile fight.

"Before you all go out for the evening, I have a quick announcement," Richard said.

Nadir and Edward, who had begun to pack their instruments away, looked up to give the record company liaison their full attention. Richard usually took a "hands off" approach as a band manager, preferring to let Erik take the lead on creative decisions and act as a liaison between The Fifth Cellar and Tabby Cat's creative executives.

"The promoters have drafted the first list of dates for the _Don Juan Triumphant_ World Tour," Richard said, passing out copies of a print-out schedule to each of the band members. "We've got 60 dates set for the next year, starting in June and wrapping up in December. We'll start in Western Europe, then move through Canada and the United States in July, fly back to Europe for the Wacken Open Air Festival and a few stops in Eastern Europe through August, then to Latin America in October. We'll wrap up with stops in Japan and Australia, and then back to the UK for the holidays."

"We're going to…all of these cities?" Christine asked, gripping her sheet with a shaking hand.

"The promoters are still trying to add more dates, but we've blocked off days for rest and days for travel," Richard replied. "I won't lie to you, it's gonna be a long few months, but you'll have a lot of fun."

"Six months with us handsome fellows – you'll have a wicked time of it Christine," Michael agreed.

"Of course, I'm looking forward to it," she answered. "It's just a lot of stops."

"The schedule isn't final yet," Richard added. "We're still booking venues and shuffling dates and travel arrangements, but it gives you a rough idea of where you'll be for rest of the year, so you can make your plans accordingly."

"We should celebrate!" Nadir declared. "Who's up for a pub supper – drinks on me!"

Edward, Michael and Andrew immediately agreed to join in and began listing off drinks and wagers on who would hit the floor first that night.

Christine didn't answer right away and looked to Erik for a hint of what she should say. Realizing that he'd scheduled a tutoring session that evening, he nodded his assent and drew closer to her, so that only she could hear their conversation.

"You should go with them, Christine."

"Aren't you going to join us? I hardly see you outside rehearsals and studio time."

"No, I – I don't think that would be a good idea."

"C'mon, just for a couple drinks," she insisted, teasing him, "you should get out more. Let down your guard a bit, you might even have fun if you let yourself."

This was no courtesy invite, Erik realized. She genuinely wanted his company. Whether she wanted to spend more time with him for herself or she wanted to bring him out for some sort of group bonding attempt, he wasn't sure. But it was good to be wanted.

"Alright, I'll join you. But only tonight."

Christine smiled, her pretty pink lips spreading into a grin that set her face alight. He hadn't seen her smile like that in any of their rehearsals. Before he could think further on her smile, she had turned to the rest of the band members and declared that Erik would be joining them for pints at the pub.

Nadir clapped a hand to Erik's back, grinning like a fiend. "When I ask you to the pub, it's always a no. But when the pretty girl asks, you deign to go out with us. I see where your loyalties lie."

In a lower voice, he added, "I think you fancy her."

"I do not," Erik answered.

The words were clipped from his tongue before he'd had the chance to think them through. He caught a quick glance at Christine. She was helping Michael cover up his drum kit and hadn't heard his conversation with Nadir. He knew he'd responded in a hurry and, as he watched her bend over to pack away a stack of sheet music, he wasn't sure if he'd been entirely truthful in his answer.

* * *

Reviews and feedback are delightful pieces of encouragement.


	7. Chapter 7

I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik/Phantom, Meg, Nadir or Raoul.

A/N: Thanks again to my reviewers Azhi D, Romantic Fan and MrsMargeryLovett. You guys make me smile. Without further ado, chapter seven:

* * *

Chapter Seven – Wednesday, April 20, 2011

_We're no strangers to love  
You know the rules and so do I_

Her phone was ringing.

When Christine had arrived in London and bought her first smartphone she'd used the default ringer on the phone. After her one-week stay on Nadir's couch, her phone had mysteriously switched tones to Rick Astley's "Never gonna give you up." Every time her phone rang, she got "rick rolled." After more than two weeks with the same ringtone (and not knowing how to change it back) Christine was two phone calls away from hurling the offending device down her building's elevator shaft.

_A full commitment's what I'm thinking of  
You wouldn't get this from any other guy_

"Hello?" she answered, wondering who was calling so early on her day off. It was 6:15 in the morning, hardly a good time for chatting. With the time difference, she was fairly confident that none of her friends or family in Canada would be calling.

"Christine," said Erik, his smooth voice on the other end.

"Erik? What are you calling for so early?" she asked. "Did I miss an early morning rehearsal?"

"No, nothing like that," he answered. "But I do have something we need to discuss. Can you meet me in Regent's Park? In the café near the York Gate."

"Yeah sure, what is it? When do you need me there?" Christine asked, using her elbows to push herself up from her bed and peek out the window. Grey skies. Again.

"Meet me there at eight o'clock. I'll be waiting for you."

"Okay – is there anything I should bring? Anything I should know? Are you okay, Erik?"

"I'm fine, I'll see you soon," he answered before hanging up.

Christine set her phone down on the nightstand, frustrated at being cut off by the composer.

Not willing to call Erik back and demand further explanation, Christine jotted down the address and time on a notepad she kept in her nightstand. Odd wake up call, she thought as she walked over to her bathroom to start her morning shower.

An hour later, Christine was showered, blow dried, made up, and dressed in jeans, slouchy brown boots and an oversize emerald green sweater. Standing at the door, she debated bringing an umbrella, but decided that having fewer things to carry would be easiest. It was a warm morning and the temperature hovered around nine degrees Celsius, so Christine decided against bringing her heavier spring coat, opting instead for a lightweight tan trench coat.

Grabbing her purse, phone, and keys, Christine left her apartment and took the elevator down to the first floor. At this hour, the only other occupant in the elevator was a jogger in her late sixties. Christine envied the woman's resolve. Since arriving in London, Christine's priorities had shifted between finding a place to live, settling in with the band, figuring out the local geography, finding another place to live, and perfecting her vocal performance with Erik. Starting a membership at a local gym hadn't even made the list. Despite her inactivity, the long hours standing in the studio had helped maintain her curvy figure. At almost five-foot-nine, Christine weighed about 150 pounds and carried her weight in lean muscle and soft curves.

Christine checked the time. 7:30. Regent's Park was about 30 minutes away by subway, but the extra minutes she'd need to navigate the crowded system and find the correct entrance to the park would push her to be late. Cursing Erik for calling her so early in the morning on her day off, Christine hailed a cab and stepped in.

Even with an extensive subway network and tariffs on operating a car within city limits, London's streets were congested in the early morning rush. Outside her window, it had started to rain. Light drops landed on the window and slid past Christine's face. The park was only a couple of kilometres away from Christine's apartment, but the ride took at least twenty minutes. After arriving at the gate, Christine paid the driver, grabbed her purse and rushed out of the cab into the drizzly morning.

Finding the café Erik had mentioned was easy. The restaurant was on the outer edge of the park, just steps away from the York gate. Spotting Erik was easier. The composer had chosen a table near the back of the café. He had dressed in shades of grey and black, from his shoes to his mask, and had brought along a laptop, which was open on the table.

Christine sat in the chair across from him and began the conversation, "Good morning Erik. Rather early for a tutoring session, don't you think?"

"I didn't come here to tutor you, Christine."

"Okay," she answered, becoming frustrated with the composer's cold demeanour and terse words. "Is there something I'm missing then? You called me at 6:15 in the morning, on my day off, asking me to come talk with you. I'm here, now what do you want?"

"I want you to explain this," Erik said, turning the laptop to face her.

The computer screen showed the webpage of a file sharing website known equally for its vast collection of torrents and for its herculean efforts to evade European law enforcement. On screen was a torrent link for the musical overture of The Fifth Cellar's _Don Juan Triumphant_. The file had been uploaded on April 19 – just last night. Already, the screen showed that it had been downloaded thousands of times.

"Did the label let this out in advance?" she asked.

"Don't play dumb with me Christine," Erik replied, shutting the laptop screen with a heavy hand and leaning in to speak. "That file was only included in the package that I prepared for you to learn the material. I didn't give a copy to any of the other band members. A second copy was left with the record label's sound producer. No one else had access to these files and I know that the label would rather fold than leak material in advance of a selling date. That leaves only you, Christine."

"Are you accusing me of –?"

"I'm not accusing you, I don't have to. Explain yourself Christine."

"I didn't leak the file, Erik."

"You're the only one who could have!" he roared, oblivious to the curious glances from the other café-goers. "Was this your idea of a public relations ploy? A fun game? Trying to stir up credibility within the music community? Tell me."

"Listen to me, Erik. I didn't leak that file," Christine answered, keeping her voice low to hide her panic.

Erik ignored her plea and continued, his eyes boring into hers and strands from his tied-back hair flying out of place. "The damage this has caused is irreparable. I could sue you Christine. Throw you out of the band. Send you back to Canada."

Christine felt anger squeeze her chest and send her stomach whirling. How dare he accuse her of sabotage? What reason did she have to hurt The Fifth Cellar? She'd just joined; this was her first album; she needed this record to succeed. And Erik. She'd spent hours working with him in the record studio and hours more in private sessions. They'd had drinks at the pub together. Why didn't he trust her?

"I can't believe you, Erik," she spat. "You're acting like an asshole. I didn't leak that file. You don't believe me? Fine. I'm leaving. You can track down the real culprit on your own time."

"You can't just leave. I haven't told you to go," Erik said, grabbing her wrist.

Christine shook off his grip and stepped away from the table, giving him a wide berth. "Like hell I can't. I quit."

And with those words, she began to run. Out the door of the café and into the park. The light morning rain had turned into a torrent and Christine regretted leaving her umbrella at home. The rain soaked into her thin jacket and through her freshly-dried hair. She kept running. Past the tourists and families on holiday. Past the gardeners who were planting flowers for the coming summer.

Christine ran to the nearest gate she could find and waved her hand to hail an empty cab. Behind her, Erik was running in her direction, his laptop bag thumping against his hip as he jogged.

"Wait!" he yelled.

Grateful that a cab had stopped just steps away, Christine ran to the car and stepped in, ignoring Erik's yells. If he was going to behave like an angry child, so would she. The cab sped away into a gap in the morning traffic, leaving Erik standing on the sidewalk with his laptop bag, in the rain.

Once she'd reached the safety of her apartment, Christine tossed down her bag and rushed to the bathroom to hang her wet coat up in the shower. Feeling a bit better, she stepped into her room and curled up on her bed, clutching her pillow. Safe, in her warm bed, in her quiet apartment, with the rain beating steadily on the window outside, she began to cry.

Out on the hallway, her cellphone began to ring. Christine ignored the tune, wishing again that she could figure out how to change the ringtone on her phone. Damn Nadir.

_Never gonna make you cry  
Never gonna say goodbye  
Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you_

Christine let the phone ring several times through the morning, never leaving her bed, except to use the washroom and brew a cup of tea. Once her anger subsided, she planned to call Meg and begin to back her bags. She'd leave for Canada as soon as she could get a plane ticket.

* * *

Sorry for ending on a cliffhanger, but I want to switch to Erik's POV for the next chapter.


	8. Chapter 8

I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik/Phantom, Meg, Nadir or Raoul.

A/N: Thanks again to my reviewers - you guys are awesome! My apologies for the delay, I was away all last week, in Boston of all places.

Without further ado, chapter eight:

* * *

Chapter Eight – Wednesday, April 21, 2011

The call from the record company had come twenty minutes too late.

Christine had left the table in an angry rush not three minutes earlier. Erik had been packing up his laptop in a rage, determined to demand an explanation from the soprano. His work! Years of composing, of writing. _Don Juan Triumphant_ was his master work – it was the first album to truly capture his feelings on love, on humanity – and she'd leaked the overture to the web. And of all the files to leak, the overture offered a brief glimpse into each of the album's ten tracks. It wasn't due to be released for months, and only with a special collector's package.

It was Richard calling from Tabby Cat Records. Groaning in frustration, Erik took the call.

"What is it?"

"We tracked the leak, Erik."

"To Christine, yes."

"No, to the sound producer's new intern, Joseph Beckett."

"What?"

"Seems the kid was trying a little too hard to make friends online," Richard answered. "You haven't spoken with Christine yet, have you? We agreed it was best that questions should come from the label."

"No, no of course not," Erik lied. "It's too early to be calling her."

"Good, glad that it's settled then," Richard said. "We'll deal with Joseph on our end. You focus on making the most of our studio time. By having the overture leaked, we've already set a precedent for this album. Best not to disappoint the fans."

"Right, yes." Erik was distracted now, thinking only of the mistake he'd just made. Christine.

"You know, the promoters are saying that it might not be such a bad cock-up after all," Richard added. "With the overture out and a bit of a scandal started, it could spike sales of the album. We could do alright by this."

"Good work then," Erik answered. "Thanks for calling."

"Alright, well, have a good day then."

Erik hung up, not wishing to draw out conversational pleasantries or discuss projected album sales. Christine had just left the building. If he hurried, he'd have a chance of catching up with her and setting this mess straight.

He packed his laptop in its bag and hurried out into the April rain, looking in all directions to catch sight of her. A group of tourists were the only people braving the weather at this hour.

"Did you see a young woman running out of that café?" Erik asked the group's leader, pointing to the restaurant's doors.

"Long dark hairs? I see a girl go that way," the man answered. He gestured to a path that wound its way to one of the park's exits.

Erik nodded his head and took off down the path at a sprint. The rain was coming down harder and his laptop bag was slapping painfully against his upper thigh, the heavy beg making impact on his wet trousers. He kept running, determined to catch up with the soprano before she left the park.

He arrived, panting at the park gate in time to see a woman with long dark hair and a tan jacket step into a taxi. He yelled at her to wait, but if she heard, she was ignoring him. The cab pulled away from the curb and merged with the London traffic. Erik, left standing on the sidewalk, let out a loud curse word before hailing another cab to take him back to his townhouse.

The cab ride to Erik's townhouse took less than twenty minutes. After changing out of his wet clothes, Erik pulled out his smartphone and began calling Christine. On his first attempt, the phone rang several times before hanging itself up. Each successive call went straight to voicemail.

Damn. He'd need to switch tactics to get her attention. Before leaving the café, Christine had said that she "quit." The band had spent months poring through demo tapes searching for the perfect singer. Once Christine had been picked, they'd spent weeks in rehearsal and Erik had invested many hours of his time honing and perfecting her voice. In the nights they'd spent rehearsing, he'd appreciated her professionalism and admired her poise. She was sublime. And he'd be damned if she quit the band after a bloody misunderstanding.

He needed to talk with her. To apologize. A mix of guilt and panic twisted in his gut. They – he – couldn't lose Christine.

Two hours later, he was standing in front of her apartment door, a bouquet of orange daisies in his hand. He had to confess – the flowers hadn't been his idea. When he'd called Nadir to ask for the address of Christine's new apartment, his friend had wrenched the whole story out of him and advised Erik to bring an apology gift. Flowers, biscuits, a bottle of wine.

Erik knocked.

After a pause, he heard a shuffle from deep within the apartment, and then footsteps approaching the door. Another pause while Christine checked the peephole. The door opened and Christine popped her head into the hallway.

"What do you want, Erik?" She was wearing the same green sweater from earlier, the fabric rumpled as if she'd slept in it.

"To apologize," he said. "Richard called me right after you left to tell me that it was the label's new intern who'd leaked the track. I'm sorry that I accused you."

"Sorry that you accused me or sorry that you're wrong?" she asked, her arm blocking him from opening the door any wider.

"I don't understand."

"You apologize for accusing me of sabotaging the band, but only after you know for certain that I didn't do it. You don't trust me Erik."

"I trust you," he said, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a rush.

"No you don't," she replied, looking at his mask with a raised eyebrow. "I don't think you trust anybody."

"I – I'm sorry Christine. I really am." He dropped his voice low and added, "I love my music. It's my whole life. I acted defensively."

Christine was silent, thinking through his answer. What more could he say?

Remembering that he'd brought a gift, he extended his hand to offer the bouquet. "I brought you flowers."

"So you did," she replied, the left corner of her mouth twitching into a sad smile. "Come inside for a minute then."

Christine took the flowers and opened the door wider, to allow Erik to follow her into the apartment. Her living room was empty, save for a sofa that looked new and three boxes open on the floor. Peering into one of the boxes, Christine pulled out a vase and brought the flowers over to the kitchen counter to cut the stems and place them in water.

"I lived with my best friend Meg in Toronto," she said, snipping the daisy stems. "All of our furniture was shared between us and I didn't want to leave her with an empty home when I moved to London. I still haven't brought over my other things – books, films, winter clothing. I guess I'll have them shipped by boat when I get a chance."

"You don't find it empty?" he asked, eyeing the bare walls and uncovered floor.

"I guess so. I spend so little time here that it's hard to say," she replied. "On my days off, I either curl up in my room with a movie or go touristing in the city." She set the flowers down on the kitchen table and turned to face Erik, her arms folded across her chest. "I don't have many friends here yet."

Unspoken, she'd reminded him of how much he had hurt her earlier that morning.

"I'm sorry, Christine, truly."

"I know you are, it's just so much more than all that. I want to see this album, and our tour succeed, but I'm not sure if this is the right life for me. No matter how hard I try – in rehearsals, in the studio, living in this city – it's never enough, but it's all so easy for you. I'm twenty-three and I'm tired."

"I think you're expecting too much, Christine. None of these things are easy, even when you're born with a perfect face."

"Oh Erik, that's not what I meant, I – it's like this. I'm on my own and I act as if I know what I'm doing, where I'm going, but I'm absolutely, completely clueless. And I've been covering it up by moving from one place to another, but I'm not ready. I love performing, but this band – is it really the best place for me? My father doesn't think so. He wants me to come back home and take a job at an engineering firm."

"You can't!"

"I don't know anymore, and trying to explain it is impossible, but I'll try. When I was really small, maybe four years old, I used to love going into my mom's closet and trying things on – shoes, scarves, skirts – and pretend I was a grown-up. I feel just like that; like I'm four years old and trying to walk down the stairs in my mom's stage stilettos."

The image made Erik laugh. Christine, clumsy? "You're doing better than you think."

She sighed and shrugged, biting her lip. "Thank you, Erik."

"So you'll stay then? With The Fifth Cellar? In London?"

"I'm not sure Erik. I need time to think about this," she said.

He was frustrated. This conversation was proving to be more difficult than the apology and reconciliation that he'd had planned. Persuading her to stay was going to take more time, more conversations. He decided to try a different tactic.

"The label's promoters think that the leak might work to our advantage. That, by having the overture unofficially released, it would pique interest in _Don Juan Triumphant_ and increase album and ticket sales," he said. "The fans will have high expectations."

"They should – we've been working overtime for weeks on this project," she agreed.

"Our first show with you will be small – a club gig in London on April 30th. You'll be there?"

"Yes, I will."

"Good, I look forward to it," he said. "The fans will love you."

"I hope so," she replied. "I really hope so."


	9. Chapter 9

Once more, I don't own the characters of Christine, Erik/Phantom, Meg, Raoul or Nadir.

* * *

Chapter Nine – Monday, April 25, 2011

On the day of her fight with Erik and near-departure from The Fifth Cellar, Christine received a video call from Meg. The two women had chatted eagerly, exchanging news. When Christine had told her friend about being accused of leaking materials from _Don Juan Triumphant_, Meg had been indignant.

"That asshole!" she exclaimed, the expletive crackling over their connection. "He just blamed you straight away?"

"He did, but he apologized after," Christine answered. "With flowers."

The mention of flowers interested Meg. "What kind? How did he give them to you? What did he say?"

"Orange daisies. He kind of handed them over, a bit awkwardly I guess. I don't think he brings flowers to girls very often."

"Right – you said he wore a mask?"

"He does, although I don't think it's public knowledge. He keeps off the stage and doesn't like to get photographed with the band. It's a bit complicated and I don't know how to talk about it with him, so I just don't," she answered. "I've never… seen beneath it, you know."

"Hmm, strange man. Keep me posted on any further developments of the Erik-kind."

"I will."

"Annnnd, you haven't asked about my big news."

"Big news? Tell me!"

"I have a job interview lined up for next week," Meg began, pausing for suspense. "And it's at a school in Reading, just west of London. And I was hoping I could stay with you for a few days."

"That's fantastic, Meg! But I have to admit that I'm more excited about seeing you than about the job interview."

Meg laughed, agreeing. The women finished their conversation with plans to meet at Heathrow Airport on Monday. Christine promised to be the best tour guide she could and to bring Meg to the band's first show at the O2 Academy Islington and to introduce her to the other band members, including Erik.

The next three days in the record studio breezed past. The band had largely ignored the leak of the album's overture, leaving the press relations to the label's promoters, and had used their studio time productively. All but two songs on the album had been recorded to Erik's satisfaction and the producer and sound engineer had already started mixing the tracks. The album artwork had been decided and approved and the band would be doing a photo and video shoot in May, as part of the promotional package for _Don Juan Triumphant_.

At Heathrow Airport, Christine was busy populating a mental to-do list of loose ends and questions to ask Nadir: check the timing on the fourth track – my cue seemed off; ask Richard to check the spelling of my name in the liner notes, go shopping for something to wear to the photo shoot, get a visitor's pass approved for Meg to visit the studio…

The intercom announced the arrival of Meg's flight from Toronto, interrupting her mental list. Christine picked up purse and began to pace outside the arrivals gate, hovering near the luggage return in an attempt to spot her friend's lime green suitcase. Suitcases were just beginning to drop on to the conveyor belt and the rotation of sensible grey and black luggage was beginning to make Christine feel dizzy.

"Christine!" shouted her friend from the top of the arrivals escalator.

"Meg!" she answered, forgetting the suitcase and dashing to the base of the escalator to pull her friend into a tight hug. Only now, with her best friend once again at her side, did Christine feel the full weight of their months apart. Meg pulled Christine into a tight hug, squeezing her in earnest.

"I missed you so much, sweetheart," she said, breaking the hug. "It's so good to see you. You look amazing! I can't wait to hear all about the band and to see you perform. My best friend, the lead singer of _The Fifth Cellar_. Amazing!"

"You look great too," Christine said, smiling. "And your hair – it's brown!"

"I've been trying to look a little more professional for job interviews. The red streaks had to go, for now at least."

"Well, you look adorable."

"Thanks Christine. Oh – here's my bag!" Meg picked her suitcase from the conveyor belt, set the bag down on its wheels, and pulled the handle up. "Where to, Miss London?"

"There's a line of cabs outside. We'll take a taxi to my apartment – I wouldn't try lugging that thing on the tube."

"The tube?" Meg repeated. "You've gone British on me."

"Occupational hazard, I'm afraid."

Christine led Meg to the line of cabs waiting outside the airport. Her friend followed, pausing every few steps to glance around at the large airport or to listen to a conversation in accented English. Within minutes, they were seated in the back of a taxi. Their route took them through the city, past Kensington and St. John's Wood. Christine did her best to repeat Nadir's tour guide speech and hoped that she hadn't muddled any facts about her new city. Meg only listened to about half of her speech and spent the rest of the ride gaping out the window at the city's buildings and citizens.

After arriving at her apartment, Christine brought a pair of blankets and an extra pillow to the living room and arranged the bedding on her couch. Meg unpacked her suitcase, bringing her toiletries to the bathroom and hanging her dresses and coat in Christine's hall closet. Once Meg had settled in, they sat down at the kitchen table for a cup of tea and a chat.

"So, this job interview, what school is it at? And for what grade?" Christine asked.

"It's a high school drama and dance teacher gig at an arts high school," Meg answered. "The pay isn't much, but it's a chance to teach my favourite subjects. And there are so few openings for new teachers in Canada these days; I don't know if I can afford to be picky."

"I know how you feel," Christine said, recalling her own frustrating job search in February. "It's really tough out there. I put out so many applications and only heard back from three companies for phone interviews. Crazy! You know, I never thanked you properly for finding me this job."

"So you like it then? Being in The Fifth Cellar?"

"I do, yes. I didn't expect to at first, but I'm having a great time in the studio and in rehearsals. The guys are great to work with and the songs aren't so different from the music I was learning in school."

"What about performing? How do you feel about that?"

"Nervous!" Christine said, choosing the word that best described her spiralling to-do list and growing anticipation. "The first show is going to be a big test for me, I think. To see if I can really fit with the band. Nadir and Edward have been teaching me all they know about emceeing a show, playing to the crowd, getting the fans excited. There's a whole culture I need to learn. But I'm glad you're here."

"And Erik? Will he be on stage too?" Meg asked, curious to meet the elusive composer of her favourite band.

"I think so. He'll be playing keyboard at the back of the stage, for sure. And I think he'll be singing as well, but so will Andrew. We haven't run through the set list and plan yet."

"Hmm. He really doesn't like being centre stage, does he?"

"I told you about his mask, Meg. He's very… self-conscious of it. The less opportunity people have to notice or comment on it, the better for him, I think."

"Are you sure?" Meg asked. "I mean, masks aren't exactly unprecedented in metal. There are bands who perform in monster costumes on stage and stay in costume for interviews and photos. Couldn't he just make the mask his thing? Like a signature look."

"I think he could if he didn't feel like he _had_ to wear the mask," Christine answered. "If he wore the mask as an accessory, it could definitely be a signature accessory. But because he wears it to hide his face, I'm not sure he sees it as a fashion statement."

"And you still haven't seen beneath it?"

"No!"

"And you aren't the least bit curious?" Meg asked.

"You're full of questions tonight," Christine said, taking a moment to think over her answer. "I _am_ curious, but it's none of my business. If Erik and I were better friends, than I might ask him about it. But we're not, so I'm leaving it be."

"Until you're better friends?" Meg teased, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively.

Christine blushed, choosing to refill her tea mug with more hot water rather than answer the question. Would she ever be better friends with Erik? So far, they'd rehearsed in private, worked on the album with the band, had drinks with the others once, and fought over a false accusation. Their relationship was a working one, not a friendship. Yet.

_We're no strangers to love  
You know the rules and so do I_

"Hello?" she said, answering the call.

"Good afternoon, Christine. I trust that your friend arrived on time?" It was Erik.

"Hi Erik," she answered, saying his name a little louder so that Meg would hear. "She's here right now. We were just having a cup of tea."

"Lovely. Do you think that she would be alright on her own tomorrow evening?"

"I think so. She's capable of ordering take-out and watching a few movies. Do you want to meet at the record studio? I can bring her with me if that's okay."

"No. Not at the studio. You misunderstand. I'd like to have dinner with you, in a restaurant."

"Oh! Dinner? That would –" Christine said, looking to Meg for help. Her friend nodded vigorously. "Dinner would be great. Where would you like to meet?"

"I'll pick you up in your lobby at eight."

"Okay, thanks. Can I ask where we're going?"

"It's a surprise, but you can dress casually."

"Alright. I guess I'll see you tomorrow night then."

"Eight o'clock in your lobby," Erik repeated before wishing her a good night and hanging up.

Christine set her phone down on the kitchen table, next to her tea mug. "Erik just asked me to have dinner with him."

"Oh, I heard," Meg answered. "And I think that Erik just asked you out on a date."

A date? With Erik? Christine wondered what _that_ would be like.

* * *

For those of you who are wondering what The Fifth Cellar sounds like, here's a quick list of sample tracks that inspired me:

Revamp: Here's My Hell  
Nightwish: Nemo  
Kamelot: Season's End & Somewhere In Time  
Avantasia: The Story Ain't Over & The Seven Angels  
Epica: White Waters  
Lacuna Coil: Spellbound  
Serenity: The Chevalier


	10. Chapter 10

I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik/Phantom, Raoul, Meg or Nadir.

And here it is, the big date...

* * *

Chapter Ten – Tuesday, 26 April, 2011

Christine and Meg had spent the day touring London. In the morning, Meg enjoyed a traditional English breakfast of porridge and sausage at a local coffeehouse. Christine, a vegan, had chosen a tofu scramble instead of sausage. The restaurant, which catered to the young professionals living in the borough of Islington, had an ample selection of vegetarian, vegan and gluten-free menu options. After breakfast, the women had taken the subway to Regent's Park, where they took a long stroll past statues and around the flower beds with steaming paper cups of coffee in hand.

In the afternoon, Christine took Meg for a guided tour of Buckingham Palace, the formal residence of British monarchs from Queen Victoria to Queen Elizabeth II. There were 429 rooms in the Palace and, although the public was only allowed to tour a tenth of those rooms, the tour had left both women with sore feet by mid-afternoon. After the excursion, Meg had suggested going home early to get Christine ready for her dinner with Erik.

"He said I could dress casually," Christine said, protesting as Meg pulled a navy-blue day dress out of the closet and tossed the garment at her.

"That doesn't mean dressing like a slob," Meg replied, digging further into Christine's closet. "Ah! Here it is – I knew you'd brought it with you to London." Meg pulled out a long, V-necked lilac tunic shirt with cocoa-hued embroidery around the neck and hem. "Wear this, with a belt, your brown leggings and the dark brown boots. You'll look gorgeous."

"It's not very 'heavy metal,' Meg," Christine said, fingering the ties of the shirt.

"This is a date, not a concert. You're not going as Christine Daaé, lead singer of The Fifth Cellar; you're going as Christine, recent university graduate, tree hugger, and charming Canadian."

"I do like this shirt," Christine agreed, gathering the clothing in her arms and walking to the bathroom to change. Pulling the tunic over her head, Christine had to admit that the outfit was a good choice. The belt cinched the shirt in at her waist and the tunic fell to just below her butt, draping modestly over her belly and upper thighs.

Half an hour later, Christine was sitting in a chair in her building's lobby, trying to look comfortable, but feeling nerves tingling under her skin. Meg had agreed not to wait with her, but she suspected that her curious friend would find a way to get a glimpse of her dinner companion. Christine tapped the screen of her smartphone, feigning interest her email and social media feeds. The record label had given her passwords to the band's Twitter and Facebook accounts, and she'd been charged with keeping both up-to-date while the band went on tour.

"Keeping busy?"

"Erik!" Christine said, rising from her chair to greet the composer. "You scared me."

"I'll try to be a tad noisier when I enter rooms, then," he said, his mouth pulled into a tight smirk below his mask. "I should add that you look beautiful tonight, Christine."

Christine smiled at the compliment. "Thank you. So, mystery man, where are we off to for supper? You've been keeping me in suspense."

"Intentionally, of course," he said. "We're going for Indian food. While it's not the national dish, curries have become an English staple in the last thirty years."

"So I've learned," Christine said, recalling her initial confusion at seeing the Indian dish on so many pub menus. "I love Indian food. It's a great choice."

"Nadir also mentioned that you didn't eat any meat, eggs, or dairy?"

"That's right," she answered, wondering if the conversation would turn into a criticism of her dietary choices. "I've been completely vegan for about three years. It drives my dad crazy, but it's a healthy way to eat and gentle on the planet."

"An honourable choice. Perhaps I'll give it a try sometime. But first, dinner. Are you ready?"

Christine nodded.

"Good, I brought my car. It's just downstairs, in the visitor's lot."

"Lead the way!"

Erik nodded and walked over to the elevator, hitting the key for the parking garage. Christine followed him, letting her eyes sweep his figure. He was tall, at least six-foot-two, and his wide shoulders and firm build suggested strength.

"Where did you park?"

"Just over here," Erik answered, gesturing towards a black Toyota Prius.

"So you do have a soft spot for the planet then," she said. "Here I was thinking you were a rockstar with a devil may care attitude."

"There are a lot of things you don't know about me," he said as he opened the passenger-side door for her.

"I'd like to know more," she answered. "I'd like us to be friends, if you'll let me."

"I – I'd like that too, Christine."

"Nadir said that you like to keep to yourself," she ventured.

"Ironic that we both go to Nadir for information about each other; perhaps we could try asking direct questions instead?" Erik suggested.

"I think that's fair."

"So, if we're in the business of asking each other questions, I'd like to start. Where did you grow up? In Toronto?"

"No, actually," she said. "I was born in Montreal. My father worked there, as a policy analyst, for many years before his job moved to Toronto."

"And your mother?" he asked. "At our first meeting, you mentioned that she had a private music studio? Was she a singer as well?"

"You remember that?" she asked, amazed at his recollection of their first conversation.

From the passenger seat, Christine had a good view of the right side of Erik's face. Perhaps it was the glow from the streetlights, but she was sure she saw him blush.

"I have a good memory."

"I'd say so. My mother was a pianist. She used to perform with the Montreal Symphony Orchestra and toured as a soloist as well. I didn't know her very well – she died when I was seven."

"I'm sorry to hear that. My father also died when I was young."

"And your mother? What is she like?

"I don't like to talk about my mother. We rarely speak to each other."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. But I think it's my turn to ask you a question," he said. Traffic was flowing quickly – unusual for London – and they'd driven through several city blocks. "You have an impeccable voice and a fantastic range; you could have performed at any opera house. What motivated you to send in a demo tape for The Fifth Cellar?"

She'd known this question would come soon and wasn't sure if she was ready to answer. How would Erik, or any of the others for that matter, feel if she told them that she'd auditioned as the result of a well-intentioned prank? Would they question her dedication? Think that she'd been desperate? No, it was better to leave that story untold until after she'd proven her mettle onstage.

"I appreciate the compliment, truly. But I did audition with opera houses and theatre companies, with little success. I didn't have enough experience. Most performing arts companies prefer their musicians to have graduate degrees. I'd only just finished my undergrad," she said. "And my motivation to audition for The Fifth Cellar? I'll let my friend Meg tell you – after our first show."

"I look forward to hearing the story then. And to meeting your friend."

"Meg's really great. And she's one of your biggest fans – I'm surprised she didn't ambush us in the lobby," Christine admitted. "I'm lucky that she's been so supportive over the last couple months. Lesser friends might have become jealous or drifted away after the move."

Erik was quiet for the next few minutes, his attention focused on the road ahead. He steered the car smoothly to the right, pulling them into a parking lot behind a row of shops and restaurants.

"And here we are," he said, shutting off the car's engine and unlocking the doors. He had parked the car in a shadowy lot in a less-travelled part of the city. A plaza of Indian and Caribbean restaurants and grocery shops stood across the street. "It doesn't look like much, but the owners are very polite and the food is incredible."

"You come here often then?"

"I don't like to go out much," Erik said, gesturing towards his mask. "But Sohan and Minnie are discreet."

They entered the restaurant and Christine could smell a mix of curry, sizzling butter and cardamom coming from the kitchen. The walls were painted a deep red and the restaurant was lit by wall sconces and table candles. Their host recognized Erik and sat the pair at a table near the back of the restaurant, close to the kitchen doors.

The two sat opposite each other, in silence. Erik had taken off his jacket and was sitting up straight in his chair, studying Christine with interest. Unsure what to do, Christine took a cautious sip from her water glass. This may have been a casual meal, but Erik was far from a casual companion, she thought.

"Thank you for inviting me," she said, her voice quiet. "It's good to spend time with you, outside of the studio, I mean."

"Of course," Erik answered. "You're right. I don't know you very well. But you are interesting to me."

"Interesting?" Christine repeated, smiling at the choice of word.

"Yes, interesting. You have an arresting voice, yet you have a double degree in engineering and music. You don't fit the mould of a metal front woman, but you're stunningly beautiful and can carry a song with power and gusto."

"You're making me blush," Christine whispered, feeling shy at Erik's compliments.

Their server arrived to take their order, interrupting the conversation at an awkward moment, and Erik ordered a selection of vegan and vegetarian fare.

"You deserve every compliment. You don't give yourself enough credit," Erik said after the server left their table.

"I hope you still think so after our first gig," she said, trying to lighten the conversation. "I used to get stage fright when I was younger. I'd get so nervous that I'd want to throw up on stage."

"I don't think we'll have that problem."

"And what about you – do you ever get stage fright?"

"Of a different kind," he said. "I'll be playing the keyboard from the back of the stage. I designed our stage to include layers of translucent screens. To the audience, the screens look like set pieces from a theatre performance, especially with the strobe lights and the smoke. To us, the screens look like thin, gauzy curtain stretched over a frame."

"That's genius! You designed all of this yourself?"

"A hobby. Before forming The Fifth Cellar, I worked as an architect and designer for several years."

"Several years? How old are you, exactly?"

"I'm thirty-three years old," he answered. "Not an old man yet."

"An architect, a composer, a set designer – you wear a lot of hats," Christine remarked.

"I like to spend my time working. If I don't have a project to work on, I can get… restless."

The server brought their first course to the table. Crispy papadum and spicy pakoras. Christine helped herself to both dishes, transferring food to her own plate. On the other side of the table, Erik did the same. His black mask covered the left side of his face from his hairline to the base of his nose. While his mouth was uncovered, Christine guessed that chewing must be difficult; the stiff material covered his cheek, restricting his movements so that he had to chew quite slowly.

Aside from the mask, he was a handsome man. The right side of his face showed high, strong cheekbones and smooth, olive-toned skin. He had bright grey eyes and his left eyebrow was thick and dark, a match to his chestnut hair. His mouth was wide, with thin lips that twisted and stretched with expression when he spoke. As she watched, Christine felt a tingle of attraction spread from her chest through to her belly. If only she could see beneath the mask.

Looking away from her dining companion, Christine focused her attention on her supper, which was delicious. The food was well spiced and didn't carry the heavy oiliness that cheap Indian food often did. Between dishes of stews and curries, Erik and Christine continued to talk about the band, the upcoming tour, and their career ambitions. When the meal ended, Erik paid the bill and took Christine home to her apartment.

"Thank you for dinner," Christine said, standing at the door to her building.

"It was my pleasure and I enjoyed your company very much," he said. "Could we, perhaps, have dinner again another night?"

"I'd like that," Christine answered, taking his hand in hers and squeezing lightly. They were standing close together, less than a foot apart. If this was a date, then he should be leaning forward to kiss her goodnight.

Instead, Erik froze at her touch and pulled his hand away. "Goodnight, Christine."

"Goodnight, Erik."

The composer turned and walked back to his car, leaving Christine to wonder if she'd misinterpreted their dinner together. Perhaps it hadn't been a date after all?

* * *

Reviews & feedback are appreciated.


	11. Chapter 11

So, what did you guys think of Christine and Erik's "date"? Reviews have been slow, so I have no idea. In this chapter, our heroine begins to dabble in the world of heavy metal fashion.

I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik/Phantom, Meg, Nadir or Raoul.

* * *

Chapter Eleven – Thursday, April 28, 2011.

The band had nearly finished recording _Don Juan Triumphant_ and Tabby Cat had given the approval for time off from the studio. Meg had attended her job interview yesterday and felt that the meeting had gone well. The school was interested in her and had asked about work permits and visa applications.

Meg had decided to extend her stay in England, to be in the country when the school made their decision and to support Christine through her first live show. To her delight, Christine had brought Meg to the studio for an afternoon and introduced her to the members of The Fifth Cellar.

Meg, who had seen the band live in Toronto and possessed all of the band's records and several pieces of merchandise, had been unusually quiet during the meeting. She'd chosen to sit on the studio's couch and watch the group record. Andrew, who wasn't needed as often, joined Meg for several long breaks. Christine watched as her friend chatted with the singer, laughing and smiling at his jokes. When she'd first arrived in London, Nadir had warned Christine that the singer had a reputation for being "on the pull" and always looking for his next lay. On their way out of the studio, Christine had discreetly passed the warning along to her friend.

On Christine's day off, Meg had decided to venture into the city for a shopping trip and Christine found herself being ferried around the city in a taxi going between malls and shopping centres. In addition to racking up her own credit card, Meg was determined to convince her friend to adopt a new "metal siren" wardrobe.

Christine's new salary from Tabby Cat Records had come with a significant bump in her credit limit and a reduction in her living expenses while the band was on tour. Trusting her friend's fashion advice, she'd filled her shopping bags with mesh tops, corsets, long gloves, pleather pants and boots, cropped jackets, and fitted black t-shirts.

"It's not what I would've picked off of a rack, but it's not bad either," Christine admitted as she stepped out of a change room wearing a top that was part maroon corset and part white peasant shirt with black pants that hugged her legs like a second skin. The corset cinched in her waist, revealing a lean, fierce figure. "I feel pretty bad ass right now."

"That's the whole idea, honey," Meg replied. "It's like a power suit, but not for an office."

Christine was already making plans to try pairing her new corsets and mesh shirts with lace-up boots and a few of the full skirts she had in her closet. Perhaps she could mix the "metal siren" and "urban hippie" styles together to create something new.

"What about on stage? I'm not sure I could sing in this corset."

"You probably could if you practiced in it," Meg said. "But if you're still not comfortable, don't wear it. Lots of front women perform in shirts and pants, even dresses. You can look like a metal head without killing yourself."

"I hope so," Christine agreed, admiring the outfit in the mirror one last time before disappearing back into the change room to switch to her street clothes. "Do you think Erik will like it?"

"He's a man, of course he'll like your new look. But he likes you. He did invite you to dinner the other night. Even if he didn't kiss you, it was still a date," Meg answered, adding "I think he's got a crush on you."

"Do you really?" Christine asked, feeling hopeful. After their dinner together, she'd shared as many details as she could remember with her friend, in an effort to dissect Erik's intentions and feelings but coming up with nothing. She'd been harbouring a crush on the composer ever since he'd come to her apartment with flowers to apologize for accusing her of leaking the _Don Juan Triumphant_ overture.

"Definitely, now quit fidgeting with the tags on that shirt. We've got a few more stops to go before we're done our shopping trip."

"A few more stops?" Christine echoed, wondering how much more her credit card could take.

"Don't worry, these will be fun stops," Meg said. "We're going to get our hair done."

"I just had a hair-cut a couple weeks ago," Christine protested. Her wavy hair had taken years to grow halfway down her back. Twirling a curl in her fingers, Christine felt a surge of protectionism for her hair; if Meg had ideas about cutting her hair short, she'd have to end the trip.

Meg finger combed through her friend's hair, picking strands up and letting them fall to her shoulders. "I don't think you need a hair-cut. Just a bit more colour here," she said, picking up a few strands from the crown of Christine's head and another bunch several layers down, "and here."

"Nothing too crazy," Christine relented.

"Trust me, you'll look great. And you want some extra 'oomph' for your first on-stage show."

After paying for the clothing, Christine and Meg walked through the shopping centre to a hair salon that offered colour services and accepted walk-ins. Within half an hour, both women were draped in barber's smocks and seated in barber's chairs, waiting to have their hair shampooed. While waiting, Meg took the opportunity to update her friend on news about their friends in Toronto. Christine listened with little interest until Meg mentioned Raoul.

"He's single again," Meg said. "I don't know if I should mention this given your current _dalliances_, but he's been asking about you. You should call him, or send an email at least."

"Oh, what was he asking about?" Christine asked, enjoying the feel of the stylist's brush working through her hair.

"How you were settling in, if you were enjoying your new job, if you were seeing anyone – the usual boy questions."

"Oh," Christine said, unsure how she felt about Raoul anymore. When they were students together, she'd been half in love with him, enjoying any opportunity to spend time with him, whether it was working on a project together or pretending to enjoy a cup of burnt coffee from the campus cafeteria between classes. Since graduation, her infatuation had abated into friendship and later, after she's moved to London, she'd almost forgotten about him.

"Is he still working with his father's company?" Christine asked.

"Yep, still at the family firm. I'm not exactly sure what he does, but, whatever it is, he spends about sixty hours a week doing it."

"He should take some vacation time."

"Funny you say that," Meg said, pausing when her stylist turned her chair to face the mirror. "He floated the idea of taking a vacation to jump the pond and visit you, maybe check out one of your shows."

"I don't think he'd be interested in going to a metal show," Christine said, remembering that Raoul preferred indie and folk rock – or what Meg would call "yuppie music."

"He may not like The Fifth Cellar's style, but he's friends with their new lead singer, so that's gotta count for something," Meg answered.

At the mention of The Fifth Cellar, Christine's stylist gasped loudly and paused in combing her hair. "Did you say that you were a member of The Fifth Cellar?" she asked, her voice wavering with excitement.

"I am, yes," Christine answered.

"You must be their new lead soprano, Christine –?"

"Daaé."

"Brilliant! I'm Annette. I've been listening to The Fifth Cellar since their – your – first album five years ago. I'm chuffed to meet you," she said.

"It's good to meet you too, are you coming to any of our club gigs this month?"

"Absobloodylootely," Annette answered. "I'll be going to the show at the HMV Forum next week."

"Wonderful. I hope you enjoy it," Christine said, unsure of what else to add. Annette was her first "fan" experience.

"When we're done here, can I ask for your autograph?"

"Sure, no problem, Christine answered. "But I have to confess, that you'll be getting the first autograph I've ever given."

At Christine's confession, Annette beamed with delight. A first autograph would be a top-notch collectors' item. She finished brushing Christine's hair and brought out a card with sample pieces of coloured hair. "What colours would you like to use?"

Christine looked to Meg, who mouthed "purple" and winked.

"Purple?" Christine repeated, in a whisper. "Alright then, I'll try this one," she said, pointing to a deep lilac colour that she hoped would mix well with her dark brown hair.

"Great choice!" Annette declared, leaving the room to mix the dye.

Meg chose burgundy red – a conservative choice, but her standards – to accent her newly dark hair. While both stylists were in the back room mixing their colours, Meg whispered to Christine, "is that your first fan encounter?"

Christine nodded, "what do I do? She's excited to meet me and she hasn't even heard me perform yet."

"Make her feel special," Meg advised. "Offer to give her a shout-out at the show, or right now, on Twitter. You are using Twitter, right?"

"I am, but I've just started. The record company signed me up for an account, but I don't have a good headshot or too many tweets under my name."

"Can you open it up on your phone?" Meg asked, curious.

"I think so," Christine said, fumbling about in her purse to retrieve her smartphone. Once she found the phone, she unlocked the screen and opened the Twitter app to log in. She passed the phone to Meg.

"Damn, Christine, you have over four thousand followers already!"

"Four THOUSAND? How did that happen?" The knowledge that thousands of people – fans of The Fifth Cellar – were interested in her was mind-boggling.

"You're pretty famous – at least in the metal community," Meg said, scrolling through Christine's mentions. "You should answer some of these tweets. Fans will expect to hear from you."

"I was hoping that all of that wouldn't start until we started the world tour in June," Christine said. "I need to focus on finishing up in the studio before I can even think about all of this… celebrity stuff."

"You better start now," Meg said, nodding her head towards the back room of the hair salon. Both of their stylists had emerged, carrying pots of viscous dye and whispering to each other.

"Ready to get started?" Annette asked. Christine nodded and the stylist began to pull strands of the singer's hair into foils and paint the hair with the dye. Once a strand was coated, she would fold the foil, sealing the hair in the dye.

"I'm using a permanent dye but, because your hair is so dark, it'll fade within a few weeks. You'll need to come back at least once a month to re-colour," she explained. "If you call ahead, I'd be happy to work with you again."

Christine made a note to schedule another appointment before she left. Annette worked quickly, wrapping each section in foil and clipping Christine's hair in place. After the dye had set for thirty minutes, Annette took Christine to a sink to wash out the dye and condition her hair. Once the singer's hair had been rinsed, conditioned, and blow-dried, Annette turned her chair towards the mirror to give Christine her first glimpse of her new look.

"I like it," Christine said, running her fingers through the strands. From a distance, her hair still looked mahogany brown. But a closer inspection revealed half a dozen riotous streaks of velvety purple rippling through her locks. The result was feminine, with a stronger edge. "It's gorgeous. Thanks Annette!"

Christine and Meg paid their bills and left the salon, eager to go home and play "dress up" to find an outfit for Saturday's show.

* * *

Next up: Christine's first concert.

Reviews & feedback are appreciated.


	12. Chapter 12

Here it is: their first concert. Just curious, have any of my reviewers/readers been to a metal show? Any metal fans out there?

Thanks to SongforaWinter'sNight and glove cmprtmnt for their lovely reviews. :)

I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik/Phantom, Raoul, Nadir or Meg.

* * *

Chapter Twelve – Saturday, April 30, 2011.

"We want Fifth Cellar! We want Fifth Cellar! We want Fifth Cellar!"

The O2 Academy in Islington was full to capacity with 800 fans cheering for the show to start. Backstage, the members of The Fifth Cellar were sitting on couches, checking set lists and waiting for the roadies to finish sound checking their instruments. Just two hours before, the band had run through the live performance from start to finish. Erik had written the set list and mapped out how each performer should move across the stage. When the world tour began, he would add lighting and recorded sound to the choreography. Tonight's show was a warm-up and a test for their new single "An angel for a ghost" and for their new singer.

Christine was a caged tigress, pacing in the corner furthest from the main stage. Every few seconds, she would either take another look at the set list, finger-comb her hair, or straighten the lilac and black corset she was wearing. She'd paired the corset with tight black pants and black pleather boots that sheathed her calves from knee to toe.

"We're on in two minutes," he reminded her.

She nodded in understanding and stated the obvious, "I'm nervous."

"I can see that and I understand how you feel, but the nerves will disappear when we begin to play."

"He's right," Nadir agreed. "And he should know – he was a bloody wreck before our first gig."

Christine smiled and gave Nadir a quick hug. Erik felt a twinge of jealousy at the contact. He would have offered her a hug or a squeeze of his hand if he hadn't been taught at an early age never to touch.

"Ready?" Richard called from the stage corner. Michael, Edward, Andrew, and Nadir all yelled "yes!" Erik nodded. Christine stared fixedly at the microphone in her hand.

"Let's go!" she cheered, running onto the stage ahead of the others. Seeing her, followed by the Andrew, Nadir and the others, the audience screamed in delight.

Christine seemed to draw energy from the audience, their screams filling her bones and propelling her performance.

"Hello London!" she called out, pointing the microphone to the audience to amplify their screams.

"Have you missed us?" Andrew asked. More screams and flashes of devil horns. "We've just finished a worldwide search for a new vocalist, and here she is. I give you: Christine Daaé!"

Michael began to beat a low rhythm on the drums.

"Thank you London for the warm welcome," Christine called into her mic. "Are you ready to rock?"

As the audience roared, Erik, from behind his screen, began to play the opening chords of "Nightfall." Recognizing the tune, the audience screamed with excitement and began to fist pump the air in time to Michael's drum beat. Christine was tapping her left boot to the beat and swaying from side to side, waiting for her cue to sing.

Nadir and Edward began to play, guitar and bass ripping through the drum beats. Erik played a staccato melody on his keys, signalling Christine to begin.

_No more light from turquoise skies  
The sun is sleeping beneath the Earth  
Good children tucked beneath their sheets  
The creatures creep from the shadows  
Darkness caresses, breaking all binds_

Several fans cheered, happy that Christine could do justice to their favourite song. A song Erik had written for Carmen's voice.

"_Nightfall! What monsters lurk in the dark?_" Andrew sang, adding his tenor to the song. Erik leaned into the microphone to echo the verse in a lower pitch.

"_Nightfall! Beware the men who linger here_," Christine sang, joining Andrew for the rest of the chorus. The audience joined in, chanting the words:

_Nightfall! What monsters lurk in the dark?  
Nightfall! Hold tight to those you hold dear_

_Nightfall! Let's storm the darkness and  
Turn loose the outcasts_

The band finished the song and moved into the next track on their set list, "In dreams I come." Erik smirked, remembering that this was the first song he'd rehearsed with Christine. She was so unsure then, so ill-fitting, he thought. But now! She was banging her head and swirling her hair between stanzas, pumping her fists into the air and revving up the audience. She'd learned quickly over the last two months, from him, from the band, and from her petite friend, who'd flown in from Canada the week before.

The band progressed through the set list, stopping for a pause after four songs.

"Are you having a good time?" Andrew called out, taking a swig of water while the audience cheered.

"I can't hear you from up here," Christine taunted, again pointing the mic to the crowd.

"Let's try something here – a turf war if you will – scream if you live North of the Thames," she called. Several members of the crowd screamed in response. "South of the Thames?" More screaming. Chrsitine alternated between the two groups, building the crowd up into a crescendo.

"We're going to play something very special for you tonight," Andrew screamed. "It's the upcoming single off of our newest album – _Don Juan Triumphant_! Tonight, for the first time, we'll play it for you. 'An angel for a ghost!'"

The crowd shrieked with delight. Good, Erik thought, as he brought his fingers to the keys to begin playing. Let them enjoy this, his greatest work. The opening of the song grew loud and bombastic, the keyboard melody barely audible over the thunder of the drums and the wail of the guitar. On stage, Christine and Andrew were banging their heads and whipping their hair in a wheel. One rotation, two, and then a co-ordinated upwards swoosh brought them both to a stand. The drums ceased. The guitar and bass ground to a halt. Only the keyboard continued; the sound eerie like wind chimes on an abandoned porch.

Erik leaned into the microphone and began to sing the opening verse. Onstage, Andrew turned his back to the audience and shrunk to the ground, letting Erik's voice carry through the auditorium.

_I am the hollow man, the stuffed man.  
My head is filled with straw,  
My dried voice, when I whisper,  
Is meaningless and raw,  
Like the wind in late summer grass  
Rats' feet over broken glass,  
In my – dry – cellar –._

The drums and bass picked up again and Nadir began to pick out notes on his guitar, gaining speed while Andrew rose and, with Christine, ripped into the chorus.

_I am a shape without form, a shade without hue,  
A paralysed force, waiting for you.  
An angel for a ghost  
You are the one, the one I shall follow  
For I am not lost, I am merely hollow  
An angel for a ghost_

Christine's well-trained voice easily soared above Andrew's, filling the space and exciting the fans, who saluted her with devil horns and the flash of smartphone cameras. No doubt several of them – perhaps from the balcony – were filming the performance to share online. Richard would be pleased; shaky live recordings would fuel the fan base and help to drive ticket and album sales.

Andrew walked away from centre stage, letting Erik's voice join again with Christine's for the second verse. Having Andrew walk away from the stage was intentional. Though Erik shied away from fame, his ego would not permit Andrew to claim credit for his work on this night. On other nights, there might be lip-syncing, but, on their first live show after months of inactivity, Erik wanted the fans to know that the elusive composer was real, not a name on the liner notes of an album. Flesh, blood, and song.

_Eyes I dare not meet in dreams,  
Are sunlight on a broken column.  
A tree is swinging, the wind is singing,  
More distant and more solemn  
Than a fading star  
At the hour when we are  
Trembling with ten-der-ness._

On cue, Nadir and Michael played the chorus again, ending the song with a heart-thumping drum and keyboard duet. The fans were jumping up and down, clapping their hands or bobbing their heads like penitents at prayer. From behind the screen, Erik could see that a mosh pit had formed before the stage and kids were pushing and shoving each other in a circle. He finished the chord, bringing the music to a low pitch and finishing with a single, sparkling high note.

After the roar of the crowd died down, Andrew re-appeared on stage. "Thank you London! That was 'An angel for a ghost' from our upcoming album: _Don Juan Triumphant_! Now – do you want more?"

The audience shouted in response.

"I think they want some fucking more!" Andrew yelled, "Christine, are you ready?"

Instead of nodding, Christine brought the microphone to her mouth and sung a high soprano scale.

"Michael, are you ready?" The drummer responded with a crashing drum solo.

"Edward, are you ready?" The bassist repeated the bass line of "An angel for a ghost," his thumbs moving rapidly across the strings.

"Nadir, are you ready?" The guitarist tore into a blistering guitar riff.

"Erik, are you ready?" From behind the screen, Erik played a demanding piano piece, his dexterous fingers dancing across the keys.

"I think we're fucking ready!" Andrew yelled, signalling the band to play the last three songs on their set list. They'd chosen to play familiar songs from their last album, _Nighttime Carnival_. Recognizing the refrains, many of the fans began to sing along with Christine and Andrew

Their first performance together was a success, ending with shouts for an encore from the crowd. The five public members of the group – Christine, Andrew, Nadir, Michael, and Edward – joined on the stage for a bow. From behind his screen, Erik lifted his arms in triumph. Behind him, a blue lamp came on, casting his shadow onto the screen for the audience to see. The group bowed again and left the stage, walking to the venue's back room for drinks and light refreshments. The stage lights flicked off and, under the cover of a darkened stage, Erik emerged from behind the screen and followed his band mates backstage.

Richard, from the record label, along with Christine's friend Meg and Michael's wife Annie, were sitting on the couches, waiting for them.

"That was bloody brilliant, mates!" Richard said, clapping Nadir and Andrew on the back. "Well done, chaps. And well done to you, Christine."

Erik watched Christine accept a high-five from the band manager and enjoy a drink with Nadir. Her friend, Meg, sat alone on the couch, watching Christine with wide, sad eyes. No doubt she felt left out of the celebration. Feeling friendly, Erik sat next to the girl and passed her a bottle of water.

"She was amazing up there," Meg said.

"She was," Erik agreed, watching the brunette chat with Edward and Nadir. "But I knew she would be."

* * *

Reviews, feedback and helpful criticism are all welcome.


	13. Chapter 13

A/N: Thank you to la vampire susan for her 3 - three, count them, THREE! - reviews. :)

I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik/Phantom, Nadir, Meg or Raoul.

* * *

Chapter Thirteen – Sunday, May 1, 2011.

After the show, the band – less Erik – and their friends celebrated in the private room of a high-end pub that Richard had rented out for the night. All twelve of them had been seated at a long table, with pitchers of beer and bowls of appetizers in the centre. In between drinks and plates of nachos, the group recounted their performance and toasted the next era of The Fifth Cellar.

Tipsy, elated, and exhausted, Christine and Meg had stumbled into Christine's apartment at three o'clock in the morning. Christine left her friend to get settled on the couch and staggered down the hall to her bedroom, happy to be nearing her bed. Weary after twelve hours of rehearsing, performing, and celebrating, she fell asleep on top of her comforter, still wearing her stage clothes.

At ten o'clock the next morning, Christine woke to the sound of knocking on her bedroom door. Groaning, she tried to ignore the sound, but found that the knocking was soon replaced by the ringing of her phone, which she'd tucked beneath her pillow and was now vibrating against her cheek. She reached for the device and, seeing Meg's name on the Caller ID, silenced the call and yelled in the direction of the door for her friend to come in.

Meg entered the room, wearing a pair of pyjama pants and an Iron Maiden t-shirt. Her eye make-up from the night before had smudged, giving her the appearance of a bedraggled raccoon. Feeling the boning of her corset digging into her waist, Christine realized she probably looked worse.

"Why are you up so early?"

"Someone was knocking on the apartment door," Meg answered. "I opened the door to answer, but no one was there. But he – Erik I think – left this." She held up a red rose tied with a black ribbon and a gift box addressed to Christine. The soprano sat up in her bed, leaning against the wall and held out her hands to accept the gifts.

Christine took the rose and brought the bloom to her nose. The rose was fresh, only half-blown, and fragrant. She also noticed that someone had taken the time to nick the thorns, leaving a smooth green stem. Setting the rose down on her night table, she turned her attention to the gift box. The box was small, about the size of a toaster, and rattled when it was moved. She untied the strings and lifted the lid.

"What is it?" Meg asked, peering inside.

Christine pulled out a container of ibuprofen, a bottle of Pepto Bismol, and a pair of designer sunglasses. "I think it's a hangover kit," she said, digging into the bottom of the box to pull out a handwritten note, which she read aloud.

_Christine,_

_I trust that you've recovered from last night. You were magnificent, as always, and the audience loved you. This is an exciting time for The Fifth Cellar. I apologize for declining to celebrate with you last night. In lieu of the bacchanalia of a pub atmosphere, I'd like to invite you to join me for lunch today at one o'clock. Text my mobile number to confirm and I'll meet you in your building's lobby._

_Erik Desrochers_

"See? I told you he likes you," Meg said, folding her arms across her chest. "_Everyone_ likes you."

Sensing that her Canadian friend felt left out of her London circle, Christine gave Meg a tight hug and thanked her for answering the door, "Thanks Meg, I'm glad you're here. I don't know what I would have done without you."

"You would have been 'magnificent' on your own," Meg replied.

"But having a 'metal coach' has helped a lot," Christine said, winking at her friend. "You should come with me, to lunch."

"I don't want to be a third wheel on your date with Erik."

"You won't be. The note doesn't say it's a date, just a celebration of a night that you were very much a part of."

"I don't know, Christine," Meg said, waffling.

"Come with me? Please?" Christine asked, choosing to play the fan card. "You've been obsessed with The Fifth Cellar's music for years and you've met the band, but you've hardly spent ten minutes with the composer."

Meg relented, agreeing to join the two musicians for lunch and Christine texted Erik to confirm for both of them. Motivated by her victory, Christine heaved herself out of her bed and walked to the bathroom to shower and start getting ready for the afternoon.

By one o'clock, both women had showered, dressed, and downed a large cup of coffee. Arm in arm, Meg and Christine left the apartment and descended the elevator to the lobby. Prompt as always, Erik was standing at the lobby doors, pretending to admire a print of a desert scene that was hanging on the wall.

"Are you ever late?" Christine asked, forgoing a greeting.

"I expect others to show respect for my time by arriving punctually, so I try to pay the same courtesy," he answered.

Christine noticed a twitch of his lips beneath his mask and returned the smile. "Thank you for the gifts, it was very sweet of you to think of me. And you look very… dapper this morning," she said, complimenting his fitted grey jeans, crisp white shirt, and tailored black blazer. For their excursion into the city, he'd chosen a flesh-toned latex mask that blended with his skin tone, disappearing beneath the shadow of the fedora cap he was wearing. Clearly, he hadn't spent the night celebrating a successful first gig.

"Thank you. Might I add that both of you look very… awake. Nadir told me that you were at the pub past the last call."

"I had her home by three," Meg said.

"Where are we off to?" Christine asked, changing the topic.

"I hear that Canadians are very fond of Sunday brunch and there just happens to be a fantastic American-style brunch spot a few blocks away," Erik answered. "I parked underground, in the visitor's space. I was hoping we could walk?"

"Great idea," Christine agreed.

It hadn't rained in several days and the springtime air carried the scent of earth warming in the sun. In the plot outside Christine's apartment complex, the first flowers had bloomed, their pink and purple petals adding cheer and colour to the building's façade. In the glow of the afternoon sun, Christine could make out the edge of Erik's mask, which looked like a thin scar running from his lower left cheek, up his nose, and across his forehead. The latex mask, while a good match to his skin tone, gave him the appearance of a person who'd had half their face airbrushed in a digital photo. From a distance, he looked like an ordinary man. But standing next to him, the difference in skin texture and the lack of wrinkles or stubble on the left side of his face gave him away.

While Christine did her best not to stare, she couldn't help glancing every few moments at Erik's masked face, wondering what his whole face looked like. In her thoughts, she'd imagined burns, scarring, misshapen features, even birthmarks covering the left side of his face. Perhaps someday, when he trusted her more, he would show her.

It took the three of them about twenty minutes to reach the brunch restaurant. Inside, the eatery was crowded with twenty- and thirty-something diners, some with their families and some huddled over their cappuccinos, hung over from a night of drinking. A waving hand at a table next to the front window drew Christine's attention. Nadir Khan was sitting at a table for four, a knowing grin on his face.

"Erik, is Nadir waiting for us?"

"Of course he is. After you texted me to announce that you'd invited your friend, I felt the need to invite the closest thing I have to a friend, to even out our numbers."

"Thanks for the warning," Meg added, feeling once again swallowed up into the band.

"It's alright Meg," Christine said, soothing her friends' ruffled feathers. "Look, he's already ordered hash browns!"

At the mention of fried potatoes, Meg perked up. Fried and salty was her favourite flavour combination. And if coffee was coming soon, even better.

"Good afternoon lovely ladies, Erik," Nadir said as the three newcomers settled in their chairs. "You're all looking rather chipper today. Sleep well?"

"Like the dead," Meg quipped, tilting her head in Christine's direction.

"It was a late night," Christine protested. Joking, she added, "I'm not a student anymore."

"And we're not in our twenties anymore," Nadir said, nudging Erik. "We've been too old for this for years already."

"You're too old," Erik said. "I'm at my prime."

Their server came to the table to pass around menus and pour them each a cup of coffee.

"If you say so," Nadir replied, taking a sip of the black coffee. "But I'm not the one who declined to celebrate last night."

"I'm celebrating with you this morning. At a more civilized hour," Erik said as he added milk and sugar to his cup.

"A toast, then?" Christine suggested, raising her coffee cup into the air. "To a spectacular first night."

"And to a magnificent new star," Erik added, joining his coffee cup to hers. Meg and Nadir added their cups to the toast, sloshing coffee onto the tabletop.

Their food arrived and the conversation turned to Nadir sharing stories of the band's past performances and their first world tour. Christine, driven by curiosity about her predecessor, Carmen, listened carefully, absorbing anecdotes about border crossing delays, accidents with the equipment van, irrational demands from their lead singer, and anti-metal protests by right-wing groups. They were here to celebrate the group's most recent performance, but Christine was beginning to feel dwarfed by the past and by the larger-than-life character of the former soprano. Who was she to claim membership in this club?

"So how did you meet Erik, then?" Meg asked, delving further into the band's history.

"There are two parts to that story," Nadir said. "The second part is fairly common knowledge. Erik and I met about six years ago; he was an architect then, working on the restoration of the Palais Garnier, the opera house in Paris. I was an usher at the theatre who used to busk along the Rue Scribe on my breaks.

"One afternoon, Erik, swept away by the calibre of my guitar-playing, stopped along the Scribe while I was busking and asked to show me some of his compositions. His pieces were breathtaking. He was considering submitting them to a publisher of operas or musicals. When I heard them, I knew we had a metal concept album. We found ourselves a drummer, a bassist, and a vocalist and we had The Fifth Cellar."

"A believable story, no?" Erik said, his right eyebrow lifted in a sarcastic smile.

"What's the first part then?" Meg asked, looking from Erik to Nadir.

"The first part is more difficult to explain –" Nadir began.

"More sensitive, you mean," said Erik.

"We met, for the first time, when we worked in the Middle East," Nadir said. "Erik was an architect on a… government project… and I was chief of security at the building he was working on. After the project ended, we separated and met again, by chance, at the Palais Garnier."

"Spooky," Meg said.

"It was destiny," Nadir agreed, fluttering his eyelashes and feigning a dramatic swoon.

Erik's expression remained serious. "The circumstances surrounding our work together in the Middle East are…complicated," Erik said. "It's best if we don't discuss the story in interviews with the press. Do you understand, both of you?"

"I think so," Christine said, wondering what the composer was holding back. What was this project? And how did it their work end? More mysteries. Erik's life story was riddled with them, it seemed.

"You never did tell me why you sent in a demo tape," Erik said, turning the group's focus on Christine.

"I can answer that," Meg said, delighted to share the story. "I sent in Christine's tape without telling her. She found out when the label mailed her a letter asking her to fly in for an audition."

"It's true," Christine added. "I'd heard of the band, through Meg. She gave me a crash course before I left for the audition."

"I always wondered why you'd auditioned," Nadir said. "You definitely stood out from the rest of the audition pool."

"Considering that you came to the band by accident, tell me, do you enjoy it?" Erik asked, his grey eyes focused on the soprano.

"I do," she answered. "More than I thought I would. It's been liberating. But, maybe, we could keep my audition story away from the press as well? It's a little embarrassing."

"I'm sure that, after they've have accepted you into the fold, the fans would find it amusing. A power metal Cinderella story," Nadir said.

"Maybe," Christine agreed, draining the last coffee from her cup. This afternoon's get-together had taken a far more serious turn than last night's pub celebration. She's learned a little more about Erik, but he remained mysterious, superhuman in her eyes.

* * *

Happy Monday!


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: Thank you to my reviewers la vampire susan, EDV, and Laetitia du Chatelet. (Laetitia: I think we have some of the same taste in music. It's great to meet another headbanger on FF.)

As always, I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik/Phantom, Meg, Raoul or Nadir.

* * *

Chapter Fourteen – Friday, May 13, 2011

Trees, fields, telephone poles. The occasional cottage.

The sights that greeted Erik from the rear passenger window of the tour bus blurred together into a smear of brown and green. Unrestrained by the heavy traffic of the city, the tour bus was speeding over English county roads, making good time on their journey into the northeast of the country. The band was en route to a ruined castle a few kilometres outside of Alnwick that the label's creative team had chosen for the album's photo and video shoot. The van with the photographer, videographer, costumer, hair stylist, and makeup artist had left earlier that day.

As per his policy, Erik had refused to participate in the photo shoot, choosing instead to supervise the process and direct the designer on which shots to use in their promotional materials. The band would be spending three days on location, and, in addition to shooting still photos, they would begin filming the music video for "An angel for a ghost." Erik had given instructions for the video to incorporate a masquerade ball in which he would make a cameo – dressed as Red Death.

Christine, angel that she was, had fallen asleep in the seat beside him. She'd confessed that, while their first four gigs had been exhilarating, the performances had left her exhausted. Erik, pleased that she'd chosen to sit with him, hadn't complained when his travel companion had begun to snore.

The other band members had made themselves comfortable on the bus' bench seats. Richard, at the label's insistence, was joining them on the trip. Smartphone in one hand and a shot list in the other, he was at the front of the bus, giving directions to the driver and catching up on his email, sharing items of interest with the band by shouting down the length of the bus.

"Did you lot read the last blog post on ?" Richard asked.

"No, what'd it say?" Nadir asked, his voice gritty with impatience. The guitarist was known for his dislike of travelling in the bus.

"Sublime, magnificent," Richard declared. "A return to greatness for The Fifth Cellar; _Don Juan Triumphant_ is poised to become the heavy metal album of the decade."

The last comment appealed to Erik. Happy, he turned to watch Christine. Her snoring had subsided, but she was still asleep. Her hair was tied back in a loose braid. Mussed by sleep, tendrils of brown and purple hair had worked free from the knot. Her face was relaxed, peaceful; a stark contrast to the fierce mask she wore onstage.

Since their first performance, she'd had supper with him once more, this time in the sanctuary of his townhouse. Away from the eyes of the public, he'd been more at ease, talking more of his childhood in France and his work as an architect. Christine, in turn, had revealed more. A strict and overbearing father, the pain of losing her mother as a young child, her struggle to come into her own as an adult. Later in the meal, they'd switched to French, a first language for both of them, although their accents and colloquialisms were different.

He hadn't touched her that night. She'd stood close to him after he took her home, looking up at him with hesitant green eyes. Did she want a kiss? From him? His mother had hated to touch him, instructing him to wear a mask from an early age. He'd had surgeries to try to correct the deformity, but each operation only increased the damage. Years later, when he'd dated Carmen, she'd pretended not to notice the mask, sweetly telling him that she'd find him attractive with or without the covering. After discovering her in a compromising position with Andrew, he'd ended the relationship, glad he hadn't revealed his face to the singer.

Watching Christine now, he wanted to touch her. A piece of stray hair had fallen across her face and was now brushing across her nose, dancing over her lips in time to her breathing. If she'd been awake, she might have been bothered by it, he reasoned. He glanced around the bus, making sure that the other band members were asleep or looking elsewhere. Satisfied that he had privacy, he reached down to Christine's face to tuck the offending strand of hair behind her ear. Her skin was soft and flushed with the warmth of sleep. She didn't stir, but he saw the corner of her mouth rise into a half-smile.

After a six-hour drive, the tour bus stopped at their hotel in Alnwick. The group checked in to their rooms and re-boarded the bus to make the twenty-minute drive to Dunstanburgh Castle, one of the largest fortifications in northeast England. The castle, built in the fourteenth century for Thomas, Earl of Lancaster, had been heavily damaged by cannon fire during the War of the Roses in the fifteenth century and its ruins had been left standing on a crag overlooking the sea.

The castle was a two-and-a-half kilometre walk from the parking lot. The crew had brought their van to the castle gates, unloaded, then driven back to the lot to park. Christine, excited at seeing the castle, had insisted on hiking along the road to the castle keep and, like a naughty toddler, had run ahead of the others. The pathway ran along the edge of a bluff that separated the land from the ocean. The air was thick with the smell of saltwater.

"Erik!" Richard called from several paces back. The band manager, who had put on some weight in the last three years, was huffing to catch up with the composer. "The director's just sent along the latest draft of the storyboard for the video. There've been some changes."

"Changes?" Erik repeated, stopping to let the older man catch up with him.

"Yes, the director, can't get his name right – Swedish fellow – has asked to have Christine saved by Andrew at the end up the video. He didn't seem to think, with your costume and all, that you'd make a convincing hero."

Erik opened and closed his mouth, swallowing his first angry reply before speaking, "Who gave the director authority to change the storyboard that I'd approved?"

"The marketing department," Richard answered.

"Idiots, the lot of them." What did marketers know about music? This was to be their fourth music video, and the first to include both Erik and Christine. Erik had written and conceptualized their previous three videos, hiring an amateur director who would follow his directions and giving explicit instructions to the post-production crew. The label's marketing department had chosen to bring in a well-known Swedish director, a slight that frustrated Erik.

"What would you like me to do?"

"Nothing," Erik said. "Nothing for now. I'll wait until filming starts and then I'll have a word with this director."

"You'll be polite?" Richard asked, as if checking the behaviour of a small child.

"I'm always polite; a characteristic you Brits can't always claim."

It was Richard's turn to open and shut his mouth in frustration. He'd managed The Fifth Cellar for the past three years and the outgoing manager had warned him about the band's difficult composer. Pay his salary on time and never question his creative decisions, he'd been told.

Ahead of them, Christine had stopped, and was staring with wonder at the ruins of Dunstanburgh Castle. The twin towers of the gatehouse keep loomed above the roadway. In the fourteenth century, the towers would have stood four storeys tall and lookouts would have been able to see an enemy's approach, by land or sea, from miles away. Today, the upper levels of the towers had been destroyed by cannon fire. Loose stones had been carried away from the site and used to build nearby houses and estates.

"I forget sometimes that Canada is such a young country," she said, speaking to Erik, but keeping her eyes on the gatehouse. "Our oldest cities were built in the 1600s. But this – this was standing hundreds of years before the French and English began to explore North America."

"I've always been impressed by what our ancestors were able to build without modern cranes and machinery," Erik admitted, his architect's eye mapping out the towers' support skeleton.

"Let's go inside," Christine suggested, pulling gently on Erik's arm. "I want to see more."

"Ladies first," he said, gesturing to the wide archway.

Christine strode into the castle keep, her eyes raking up and down the walls as she tried to imagine what the stronghold would have looked like when it was first built. The creative team was already inside, beginning to set up the lights and change curtains for the afternoon photo shoot. Crates and boxes of equipment were scattered about the entrance hall, looking anachronistic against the rough-hewn stone walls and broken stone floor.

The photographer was walking around the hall with a piece of chalk in hand, marking places on the floor where he wanted band members to stand and checking the light that came through the arched stone windows. Seeing Erik and Christine, he waved hello and pointed them to the costumer. Erik hung back, declining to participate in the shoot.

Christine, excited to participate in her first photo shoot, jogged over to the costume change area. The wardrobe coordinator, a woman in her late twenties with dyed black hair and heavy eye makeup, pointed out Christine's trunk and asked the singer to change behind a curtain in the next room. Elated as only an ingénue could be, Christine wheeled her suitcase away into the next room to change into her first ensemble.

Erik found a folding chair leaning against a crate and carried it to the far side of the castle keep, near the courtyard entrance. He unfolded the chair and sat, watching the crew members finish setting up the last of the equipment. Although it hadn't been his choice, Erik had to admit that the crumbling castle was an ideal place to take the band's promotional pictures and shoot the first scenes of their next music video. Inside the castle, the windows and door way brought light into the keep, piercing through the heavy shadows cast by the thick stone walls. The building's decay was equally evident inside the castle, and weeds and grass had started to grow through the cracks in the stone foundation. Outside, the long view of the sea and the steep cliff surrounded by acres of sun-bleached grass juxtaposed to form a dramatic and striking landscape.

The photographer was beginning to take the first photos of Michael and Edward, who were both dressed in monochromatic grey shirts, black jackets, and black jeans with heavy metal chains dangling from the belt loops. The man gingerly picked his way through the cables snaking across the floor, taking a mix of head and full-body shots.

Christine emerged from the change room wearing a strapless, floor-length burgundy dress and full make-up. Erik tried to keep himself from staring. She was stunning. The hair stylist had taken her hair out of the braid and left it down in soft waves that cascaded over her shoulders, ending at the base of her ribcage. When her turn came, the photographer began taking solo shots of the singer, using different angles and – for one set – bringing a fan to blow her hair across her face. The shoot lasted several hours and Christine changed outfits four times, sometimes appearing with the band, but often photographed alone.

For the last round of photos, the photographer paired Christine with Andrew, asking the two to stand close together and suggesting a variety of romantic poses. For one photo, Christine was posed falling into Andrew's arms, as if he was rescuing her. In another photo, Andrew was draped with chains and Christine pretended to yank Andrew towards him. In between takes, Andrew would whisper to Christine and casually touch her arm. Erik found himself gritting his teeth as Andrew's fingers brushed against Christine's cheek while he was fixing a piece of her hair that had fallen forward. He had touched that cheek, just hours before. A gentle touch that Erik had chanced giving. Andrew's touches were casual, and the handsome singer took for granted that the soprano would not flinch from him.

The injustice of the situation as mocking; in the four years they'd worked together, Andrew had had "relations" with at least a hundred girls, all of them beautiful. Years ago, Erik had had a short, fleeting relationship with Carmen. In the months since Christine had joined the band, he'd cultivated a sort of friendship between himself and the soprano and, later, he'd hoped – dreamed – to bring the friendship to a romantic status. In just two hours in front of the camera, Andrew had enjoyed more contact with Christine than Erik had had in two months. Lucky bastard.

Christine was now wearing a pair of tight black pleather pants, knee high black boots and the purple corset she'd worn on stage during their first show. The photographer had asked Christine to stand in front of Andrew, with one hand on her scalp, fingers tangled into her hair. In between photos, Erik caught the frontman's eyes dart downward, glancing at Christine's bottom.

"We're done here!" Erik yelled, yanking the nearest power cord out of its socket. Immediately, the photographer's lamps went out, casting Christine and Andrew in temporary darkness.

"What the hell?" the photographer bellowed. "I didn't order –"

Richard hurried over to the photographer, sending him a look to suggest quiet. Other crew members, tired from a day of travelling, setting up, and working, took Erik's cue and began to pack up the set. They would finish the photo and video shoot tomorrow.

* * *

Reviews & feedback are welcome. \m/


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: My apologies for the belated update. My current work contract is ending at the end of the summer, so I've been job hunting quite aggressively. A spot of luck: I have three interviews this week. One down and two to go. Wish me luck!

Thanks again to my reviewers - you guys are fantastic. :)

I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik/Phantom, Raoul, Meg or Nadir.

* * *

Chapter Fifteen – Sunday, May 15, 2011

At her apartment in London, Christine sat on her couch with her laptop, scrolling through the first proofs the photographer had sent. He hadn't finished editing the photos, but with the lighting, make-up, and costumes, Christine couldn't imagine what retouching they needed. The creative team had made her look like a magazine model. She'd never had so many people fussing over her hair, make-up, and clothing and, while it had been a novelty on the first day, she soon grew frustrated with being treated like a living doll.

Still, the photos were fantastic. There were some definite perks to this new job, she thought. The group would be filming the rest of the music video tomorrow in a studio at the east end of the city. Richard had warned her that the photographer would likely return to take still photos in between video takes. The label would also be sending a marketing and promotions coordinator to take "behind the scenes" photos and video clips to share as teasers on the band's website.

The album wasn't due to be released until July and, already, Richard had booked press conferences and interviews for Christine, Andrew, and the band. Several European metal music magazines would be running cover story features on The Fifth Cellar and _Don Juan Triumphant_. Recording on the album had finished and the sound producer had started to mix the tracks, layering recordings of each of the instruments, the choir, and each of the vocalists. The album cover had been photographed and designed by a local illustrator. Once the music video was finished, the band would take a two-week break before their tour began in June.

Christine's phone rang, vibrating against her coffee table and interrupting her thoughts. After setting the laptop down on the table, she picked up the phone to answer. The screen identified the call as coming from her father. With trepidation, she hit the answer button and said hello.

"Christine? Is this a good time?" her father asked. "I'm calling on my lunch break."

"It's fine, dad. I'm just at home for the afternoon. I'll be meeting some of the band members for dinner later."

"Oh, that's good then," he said. "You're enjoying yourself?"

He asked the same question every time he called, Christine noted with ire. "It's wonderful dad. The tour starts in a few weeks and the album comes out in a month. I'll send you the link when the first single gets released. I think you'll like it."

"I'll be curious to hear what you've been working on. You hardly call anymore. I miss you, kid."

"I miss you too, dad. I promise I'll call more often – we're about to be on break for a couple of weeks. And I have a show in Toronto booked in a few months. You promised you'd come see me."

"Yes, yes, I'm looking forward to it," he said, sounding distracted.

"Is there something wrong?" Christine asked.

"No, nothing's wrong. I wanted to make sure you were alright. But, since you have some vacation time coming up, it would be nice if you'd fly back to visit."

"I don't know, dad," Christine said. "The tour's coming up fast, and I'll want to spend some more time rehearsing with Erik – he's our composer."

"The charity masquerade ball is in a few weeks," he began. "I bought our tickets months ago. I was hoping you could come with me. I have several friends I'd like to introduce you to."

Friends to introduce her to? What did that mean?

"Dad, I'm not sure I can just fly across the Atlantic to come to a ball. I'll be in Toronto in just a few more months."

"Please think about it," he implored. "It would mean a lot to me."

Guilt gnawed at Christine's insides. If she flew to Toronto, she knew that her father would introduce her to a host of smarmy young men and then try to persuade her to quit the band.

"Can I get back to you on this later tonight? I need to run a few things by our band manager," she lied.

"Of course, of course," Charles said. "Listen honey, I've got one of the co-op students knocking on my door right now. Can we talk more later tonight?"

"Sure, no problem."

"Have a great day, kiddo."

Christine said goodbye and hung up. The screen on her smartphone told her that the conversation had lasted less than three minutes. She tossed the phone to the other end of the couch, no longer wanting to spend the afternoon looking through photo proofs.

_Please think about it. It would mean a lot to me_. Her father's words repeated in her head. Since her mother died, Christine had had a stilted relationship with her father. Her mother had been the grounded parent, had set rules and expectations for her daughter, and kept her husband from over-indulging her with treats and toys. After her mother had died, Charles had tried to assume his wife's responsibilities, shortening his work day to be able to meet Christine after school and to feed and clothe the pair. The new role had fit her father like a child's glove on an adult's hand. With squeezing, he was able to balance the demands of work and fatherhood, but, by the time she'd entered high school, Charles had returned to his workaholic lifestyle.

In her gut, Christine knew that she would have to make the trip to Canada in the next week. Travelling didn't faze her; but spending a few days in her father's company did. Charles worked sixty-hour weeks, wore a suit and tie to his office each day, and subscribed to four different business newspapers. Her father was a businessman to the core and Christine knew that her new musical career wouldn't sit well with him. Could she endure three or four days of dropped hints and suggestions to quit?

Feeling the need to talk this through with a friend, Christine called Erik and invited him over for a supper of Japanese take-out. He agreed and promised to meet her at her door in an hour. Pleased, Christine pulled her laptop towards her and began to search for nearby Japanese restaurants that offered both vegan options and delivery service.

Once the food was ordered, Christine began the process of "man-proofing" her apartment: washing all of the dishes in the kitchen sink, picking up clothes from her bedroom floor, sweeping the floors, and opening the living room windows to let in a gust of fresh air. When the doorbell rang, she was in the midst of re-arranging the boxes that still cluttered her living room. With one last huff, she slid a box of books into the corner of the room, away from the couch's line of sight. In the last week, her remaining belongings had been shipped to England by boat. The boxes of summer clothes, books, cookware, and family knickknacks had sat dormant in her living room until now.

Satisfied that her apartment was mostly in order, Christine answered the door and greeted the delivery man. The driver was a short Japanese man in his late sixties. She took the two bags of food from him, setting them on the floor while she signed the credit card slip and handed the man a few quid for a tip.

After closing the door, she heard the delivery man yelp in surprise from the hallway. Thinking he might have tripped on a stair, Christine popped her head out the door to see Erik coming down the hall, dressed in dark colours and wearing his customary black mask. The delivery driver stared openly, startled at seeing a man in a mask walking down the hallway.

Ignoring the driver, Christine greeted Erik, trying to distract him from having been gawked at. "Hi Erik! Thanks for coming on such short notice."

"It was no trouble," he answered. "I was planning on spending the evening working in my home studio. I have a few ideas for the next album. Something lighter, perhaps."

"Already?" Christine said. "Meg wasn't kidding when she first told me about you. You _are_ a creative juggernaut."

Erik raised an eyebrow at the moniker, but chose not to disagree. He stepped into her apartment and picked the take-out order up from the floor and set it down on the coffee table. "How was your afternoon?" he asked.

"Alright, I guess. I saw the proofs from the photo shoot. They look pretty fantastic. Meg'll be floored."

"The photographer was…adequate," Erik said. "You were beautiful. As always."

Christine felt her cheeks warm in a blush and turned away from her guest, heading into the kitchen, to cover her reaction. She opened the containers of sushi, sashimi, tempura, deep-fried tofu, house salad, and miso soup, spreading the meal out on the kitchen counter. Taking two plates from the cupboard, she handed one to Erik and invited him to help himself to the food.

Together, they sat at her kitchen table, discussing the recent photo shoot and the upcoming tour. Erik suspected that the label would extend the tour, adding more European dates, especially in the Scandinavian countries, where heavy metal was the nation's pop music. He also predicted that the label would ask for a second music video, most likely for "The seduction of Aminta," a sensual love ballad between Don Juan and Aminta. The song had been recorded with Erik's voice, but would be sung live by Andrew, to the annoyance of both Erik and Christine.

"At the shoot yesterday, the photographer took several stills of Andrew and you," Erik commented.

"He did," Christine agreed, not sure what Erik was getting at. Could the composer be jealous? "It was alright, I guess. He's a nice enough guy, even if he does wear some pretty vile cologne."

The comment seemed to cheer Erik up. "He thinks he smells good, and I won't be the one to tell him any different. The women he cavorts with don't seem to mind."

Christine wrinkled her nose in distaste. She'd already met a few of the women Andrew had slept with. Some were fans picked up at the end of shows; others were women he met on the street or in restaurants. A few had been brought backstage, to the embarrassment of the other band members. He was a talented singer and a charismatic stage performer, but Christine didn't fully understand his role in the band. Sometimes he was Andrew, a back-up vocalist, at other times he was Erik's avatar, lip-syncing to Erik's voice on stage or in videos. Wouldn't it be simpler to have Erik assume the role of frontman?

"Erik?" she asked, getting his attention. "Sometimes, I think you'd make a better frontman than Andrew. You know our songs better than anyone – you wrote them! I'm sure you'd be great on stage too."

Erik shook his head in disagreement. "You're not the first person to suggest this, Christine. But I'm not…comfortable with making a spectacle of myself. My appearance draws too much attention."

"I think you're selling yourself short," Christine replied. "You've got the 'tall, dark, and handsome' bit down. Add the mystery of a man in a mask, and we could have a music icon in our midst."

"I don't think so," Erik said, pushing his plate away from his body. "And I'd prefer not to discuss this any further."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Erik said. "But let's talk of something else. What are you planning to do in during our upcoming break?"

"Well," she began. "My dad called, and he wants me to come home for a few days."

"And you're going?"

"I think so. I just – I might need some back-up. He's pretty set on getting me to quite the band."

Christine continued to explain, sharing details about her initial trepidation at signing Tabby Cat's contract and the fight she'd had with her father before the move. She'd only spoken with him a handful of times since moving to London, always on the phone and never by Skype. During each conversation, he'd been critical if her decision to join the band, dropping hints anout openings at his friends' engineering firms.

"You need to be firm with him," Erik suggested.

"How can I be 'firm with him?' He's my dad!"

"I could come with you," Erik added, offering the suggestion without much thought.

Three or four days with Erik in Canada? Christine immediately accepted the offer. "That would be awesome! You could meet my dad and show him some of your work – you music and your architecture. I bet he'd be really impressed."

"If it'll help," Erik said. "To keep you in the band."

"It's a great idea," Christine said. Recalling the conversation she'd had with her father, there was one piece she hadn't told Erik about. "There's also this charity masquerade ball. My dad goes every year and, this year, he wanted to take me. You could come with me, as a date? Or just as a friend I you want."

"A masquerade?" Erik repeated, rolling the idea around in his mind. "I'd be delighted to accompany you. As your date."

* * *

And... another date!


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: Glad that this week is over - job interviews are stressful! I'm looking forward to spending the rest of the weekend writing on my balcony, practicing drums and enjoying a few good beers.

Thanks again to my reviewers: Wandering-Phantom and Angel's wings.

I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik/Phantom, Raoul, Meg or Nadir.

* * *

Chapter Sixteen – Monday, May 16, 2011.

As soon as he'd accepted Christine's offer, the soprano had called her father, telling him that she would be bringing one of her bandmates with her. He'd spent the rest of the evening discussing travel arrangements and listening as Christine rattled off a list of places she wanted to show Erik. The Distillery District, Niagara Falls, Casa Loma, and a place called Wonderland.

The next day, Erik had picked Christine up at her apartment and driven them both to the film studio to shoot the final scenes for the "An angel for a ghost" music video. The director had arranged for Andrew to be costumed and made up as a spectre living in the dungeons of a ruined castle. The ghost, awakened by the presence of a young woman, played by Christine, began to haunt the village surrounding the castle, searching for the young woman. In the final scene, the ghost appears, in flesh, to meet the woman who has awakened him.

The video's plot barely resembled the storyboard Erik had submitted months ago to the creative team and the events in the video detracted from the storyline of Don Juan Triumphant. Still, Erik found himself enjoying watching Christine dance before the green screen, calling to a ghastly Andrew. She was wearing a loose white dress, her hair unbound and falling down her back in tangled waves. Three steps, skip, a fourth step, cross over and bend – the simple steps were a challenge for Christine. In one of their evenings together, she'd told him that her father had enrolled her in a ballet class the year after her mother died. Still angry and grieving, she was distracted through her lessons and performed badly, tripping often. Years later, she still carried a negative association with dancing.

After filming wrapped up, the band gathered in the studio's lounge for drinks. Richard joined them, grinning with excitement and hugging a box to his chest.

"They're here!" he cried, opening the box and passing around discs to each of the musicians. "The producer just finished mixing the album and, with our composer's approval, I asked the sound engineer to burn off a few discs, just for us. The marketing department even let me get away with printing the first draft of the cover art and liner notes."

Erik took one of the proffered discs, turning it in his hand to see both sides of the album cover. The front showed Christine, wearing a blue silk gown, sitting on the ground before Dunstanburgh Castle. Her dress was gathered around her, covering her folded legs. Her fingers held the edges of an ancient book, laid open in her lap. Above her, the sky was bright, but, behind her, a ghostly shape reached for her from the shadows. The band's logo and the album title were written across the top of the cover and along the spine of the case.

He'd spent many long nights in the studio, working with the sound producers to mix the tracks and recreate the songs he'd heard in his head when he was composing _Don Juan Triumphant_. In those sessions, he'd guided the technicians' choices, leading the team to produce the album he now held in his right hand. He felt a rush of pride as he continued to look down at the album cover. This was his. He had created the music of _Don Juan Triumphant_. The Fifth Cellar was his band, its members charged with bringing his music to life. Together, they'd created something brilliant, shining, and dark. Thick melodies and charged solos, _Don Juan Triumphant_ would shake the foundations of heavy metal.

"This looks bloody fantastic," Nadir appraised. "Christine, you look fucking gorgeous."

"Thanks Nadir," she said, her voice soft with awe as she cradled the album in her hands. She'd been with the band the least amount of time, but, in the last two months, she'd worked harder than the others, rehearsing with Erik and logging long hours in the studio.

"Should we give it a listen?" Andrew asked, eyeing the lounge's stereo system.

"I can't think why not," Michael agreed. "Are you blokes all in?"

Edward, Nadir, and Erik nodded their assent and Andrew slid his copy into the stereo. Erik sat in an armchair, making himself comfortable for the 70-minute listen. Christine sat on the end of the couch closest to him, sending a shy smile his way. Last night, when he'd agreed to go with her to Toronto, she'd pulled him into a tight hug, wrapping her arms around his middle and squeezing his frame with delight. He hoped to find more reasons to make her so happy again.

Andrew hit play on the stereo and the band listened as the recorded choir chanted in time with Michael's drum beat, coming to a crescendo several seconds into the song and pulling the keyboard, guitar, and bass into the song. "Prologue" ended, and the second track, "For a Northern girl" began to play.

Erik pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket and began to jot down suggestions for the sound engineers. Minor alterations to volume, levels, mixing, and timing between tracks. Overall, he was pleased with the quality of the recording. The label may have hijacked his concept for their music video, but their creative team had stayed true to Erik's direction on the album's sound.

The stereo continued to play, cycling through all ten tracks on the album and finishing with "At journey's end," an eight-minute song that takes the album's protagonist, Don Juan, through hell and back. After the album finished and the final notes of the keyboard faded into silence, the lounge was quiet for several minutes. Each musician breathed a sigh of relief, pleased to hear how their music had come together in a concept album.

"That was incredible," Nadir said, breaking the moment of quiet.

"It's our best album yet," Michael agreed. "I wasn't sure before. But, hearing this, it's spectacular."

"Sure to be a top seller," Richard added.

"I didn't know that a metal album could be so musically colourful," Christine said. She turned in her seat to face their composer, "you're a genius, Erik. A genius."

Nadir nodded his head in agreement and began to clap. Erik watched, humbled, as the rest of the band joined in applauding his work, their record. The moment crumbled some of his tough façade and Erik permitted himself to smile and clap along with the others. Raising his glass, he toasted to _Don Juan Triumphant_ and to The Fifth Cellar.

After the toast, the musicians left the studio to continue celebrating at a neighbourhood pub. Christine walked ahead with Andrew and Michael, followed by Edward. Nadir hung back to walk with Erik, who, in his good humour, welcomed the company of his friend.

"Congratulations, Erik," Nadir said. "You've outdone yourself at last."

"Outdone? Never. I've already began composing the next album," Erik replied.

"Composing again? We've been rehearsing, filming, and performing for seven weeks solid. How do you make the time?"

Erik shrugged, not wanting to launch into an account of his creative habits. When working on a project, he ate and slept little, consuming himself in his work. During the creation of _Don Juan Triumphant_, he'd voluntarily confined himself to his apartment for more than two weeks, choosing to order food and leave his dirty clothing at the door to be laundered by a cleaning service.

"No matter," Nadir said. "Even if Richard's wrong and the album tanks in the charts, it'll still be one of the best metal records ever produced. You should be proud of yourself."

"As you Brits say, I'm right chuffed."

"Good then. A bit of swagger in your step can't hurt, especially when it comes to attracting the ladies." Nadir nudged Erik in the ribs and pointed to Christine's back.

"Don't point!" Erik hissed, pulling Nadir's arm down.

"Pointing or no, it's obvious that you fancy her," Nadir said. "And why not? She's a darling to work with and, in case you haven't noticed, she's quite fit."

"Two very good reasons why not," Erik argued. "Persia and the mask."

"If you explain it properly, the incident in the Middle East wasn't your fault. Mistakes happen, Erik. We've moved on, in a different line of work," Nadir replied. "And I think you might find her more accepting than your last paramour. She's a good girl. Bit flighty, but her heart's in the right place."

"I'm flying to Canada with her next week," Erik admitted, blurting the fact into the conversation.

"I know," Nadir said his expression cheeky. "She told me earlier this afternoon. She's quite excited about the trip too."

"I expect so," Erik said, his gaze resting on Christine's back. She and Michael were bantering, walking several steps ahead of Erik and Nadir. Her hair was tied back today, wrapped into a messy bun atop her head. Erik wasn't sure which he liked better: seeing her hair falling loosely over her shoulders, or seeing her neck and ears exposed. Either way, she was beautiful. And perhaps, in time, attainable.

"You definitely fancy her," Nadir declared, following his friend's gaze. "I'd even wager that you're falling in love with her."

* * *

Reviews are like candy. :)


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: I hope that all of my Canadian readers had a relaxing long weekend - I sure did!

Thanks again to my reviewers: Astrayn, angelicdamnation, Angel's wings and "Guest" (you mysterious character, you!)

I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik/Phantom, Raoul, Meg or Nadir.

* * *

Chapter Seventeen – Monday, May 23, 2011

Erik and Christine had flown into Toronto over the weekend, arriving Sunday afternoon. Her father had invited both of them to stay with him, but Christine had resisted, choosing instead to stay in the apartment she'd shared with Meg. Her friend was out of town for the week, working at a summer camp for children recovering from cancer, so Christine and Erik had the apartment to themselves. They'd ordered greasy Chinese food and spent the evening sitting on the couch together, answering email and chatting about upcoming press interviews.

On Monday, Christine had spent the day sightseeing with Erik. He'd brought his flesh-coloured latex mask and, with a fedora pulled low over the left side of his face, the mask was nearly invisible. Christine had taken Erik to the top of the CN Tower, which, at over 550 metres high, was the tallest freestanding structure in the Western hemisphere. From the Skypod observation deck, they'd enjoyed a clear view of the waterfront and the city. Christine had excitedly pointed out the city's famous beaches, parks, and historical districts, taking the opportunity to share stories about growing up in the city.

After descending the tower, they'd enjoyed lunch at a café and Christine had insisted on giving Erik a walking tour of the oldest part of the city, starting with the St. Lawrence Market. The marketplace, one of two in the city, had been built in the nineteenth century when the city was still known as York. The south building had been renovated at the turn of the century and again in the 1970s. Pulling on his wrist, Christine led Erik through the crowded marketplace, dodging and twisting around tourists and patrons. The market was filled with a mix of grocery, bakery, and restaurant stalls selling everything from kitchen equipment to prepared foods to specialty meats, cheeses, and vegetables. Christine stopped by a bakery stall and chose a mix of cookies and pastries to take with them to her father's for dinner.

Before dinner, Christine had made a discreet call to her father to tell him about Erik's mask and ask him not to stare or to ask questions. Charles had sounded surprised on the phone, but declined to comment. After pressing him on the issue, he promised to keep his questions to himself and behave as if he didn't notice the composer's mask.

When Christine and Erik arrived at her father's condominium in the west end of the city, Charles had greeted them in haste before dashing back into the kitchen to answer the call of an oven timer. Christine and Erik were left standing in the foyer, their jackets on and shoes still tied. Laughing, Christine hung up her jacket and set her purse down on her father's writing table.

"Welcome to the Daaé house," she said, taking Erik's coat from him and hanging it in the hall closet.

"It's lovely, did you grow up here?" he asked.

"No, when we first moved to Toronto, dad and I shared a three-bedroom apartment in midtown. We still had a lot of furniture and things left from my mom that we'd brought with us, so we needed the extra space. Dad down-sized to a two-bedroom condo after I started university. I think he's been here for three, maybe four years."

"Four years next month," her father said, re-joining them in the foyer. "Sorry about that. I'm not much of a cook, but feeding you burnt eggplant is below even my meagre abilities."

"Eggplant? I thought you hated eggplant," Christine said.

"I do, but you won't eat any of my favourite foods – chicken parmesan, beef burgers, goat cheese salad – so I've had to dig a little deeper into your mother's old recipe box. We're having ratatouille tonight."

"My mom was a vegetarian too," Christine added, clarifying for Erik.

"Ratatouille is a French staple, so it seems you've satisfied both of our tastes in one meal. I look forward to it," Erik said.

"Right. Christine told me that grew up in France?"

"Yes, outside Lyons. I moved to England after meeting our guitarist, Nadir Khan, a naturalized Londoner. The idea for The Fifth Cellar came from work I'd done in Paris, but the band is mostly English," Erik said, adding, "I was working as an architect at the time and Nadir had more musician friends than I."

"An architect?" Charles said, leading the pair into the kitchen. "Did Christine ever tell you that she studied civil engineering?"

"She did. I haven't seen any of her school work, but I can tell you that she's an excellent vocalist and a great asset to the group. My latest project, _Don Juan Triumphant_, couldn't have been completed without her."

Christine blushed at the compliments. "He's being too kind, dad. Erik spent hours tutoring and working with me at the studio, bringing me up to par with what the others were doing. He should take most of the credit."

Charles looked from Christine to Erik, studying their expressions as if looking for a chink in an opponent's armour. "Then I look forward to hearing the album and seeing you perform. When's your Toronto show again?"

Christine scowled. She'd reminded her father about this show half a dozen times and was planning on buying him a ticket as soon as they came on sale. "It's on July 12th, I already told you. There's also a show in Montreal on the 10th if you'd prefer to see us there."

"I can check my calendar, but I think I have a trip planned in early July," Charles said. "The province is sending me to an education conference in Quebec."

"So come to the Montreal show then," Christine suggested. Why was he being so difficult?

"Sure, I'll see if I can get a couple of the co-op students to go with me. I mentioned that my daughter was in a rock band and they were interested in your music."

"Symphonic metal, not rock," Christine corrected. "And you're welcome to bring anyone you like, as long as they know what they're getting into. A metal show isn't anything like the recitals and performances I gave at the university."

Her father nodded in agreement and turned his attention to mixing the roasted eggplant with other vegetables in a large pot to make their ratatouille. As the kitchen grew quieter, Christine could make out the muted strains of a piano concerto coming from the dining room. Schubert, she thought. Or perhaps Beethoven. Erik would know. With her father's back turned from their table, Christine let her attention drift to her guest. Erik was sitting opposite her, his back stiff in his chair and his hands resting in his lap. The position was a mix of graceful and awkward, as if he were a seven-year-old posing for a school picture.

Thinking ahead to the next night, she wondered if he'd be as stiff a dance partner as he was a conservationist. The masquerade ball was a major fixture in the city's social scene, attended by those who possessed, or aspired to, wealth and influence. Christine's father, a leading policy analyst, had attended for the last three years, coming away with leads on prospective clients at each event. It would be Christine's first year attending the ball and, as the daughter of Charles Daaé, she would be expected to give a demure and cordial performance. With a budding career as a heavy metal singer and Erik as her escort, she wasn't sure that "demure and cordial" would be possible.

"Supper's almost ready," Charles said, lifting the lid on the stock pot to release a cloud of tomato-scented steam. "Christine, I've got a loaf of garlic bread warming in the oven. Can you pull it out and cut it up?"

Doing as her father asked, she left the table and helped her father prepare the finishing touches on their meal. The garlic bread was the store-bought kind that came frozen in a long loaf. Trying to avoid touching the butter, she used a serrated knife to saw off apart the steaming bread. Beside her, Charles gave the ratatouille a final stir, sprinkling salt and pepper into the pot. Without being asked, Christine pulled plates out of the cupboard and began to set the kitchen table for dinner.

Throughout the meal, Charles asked about Christine's apartment and her new neighbourhood in London. She did her best to describe where Islington was in relation to the city's major landmarks. Erik, who'd lived in London for close to five years, was able to offer a clearer description of the borough and its demographic mix of blue-collar families and young professionals. Charles also asked about the band's history and was pleased to learn that _Don Juan Triumphant_ would be their fourth album and that their first three records had sold well, especially in the European and Latin American markets.

"What will you be doing once the tour's wrapped up?" he asked, looking to both Erik and Christine for answers.

"I hadn't planned that far ahead," Christine admitted. "But I assume that I'll be working with the band, performing in Europe, and either doing some side projects or starting work on our next album."

"Christine's contract covers the production and promotion of _Don Juan Triumphant_, but no end date was specified. If she agrees, she could record and perform with The Fifth Cellar indefinitely," Erik said. "I'd also welcome her input in the writing of our next albums. Nadir had some ideas about doing a cover album of popular songs, but I haven't heard any demos yet."

"Keep engineering as a second option," Charles suggested between mouthfuls of stew. "I wouldn't want your education to go to waste."

"I did a double degree," Christine reminded him, "my education won't – and hasn't – gone to waste."

"Just keep the option there," her father repeated. "Music is a demanding career path. Your mother was always out rehearsing, or else away on tour. You might want to settle down with a real job and a family someday."

This is a real job! Christine wanted to scream, but she held herself in check, squeezing Erik's hand under the table to keep him from making any comment. She was in Toronto for three days and getting into a heated argument with her father wasn't on her agenda, nor would it serve to sway him to her side. Tempting as it was to scream out her salary or their projected album sales figures, she chose to ignore the comment, finish her supper and make a quick exit from her father's condo.

* * *

Happy Tuesday!


	18. Chapter 18

Annnnnd... just because you guys are awesome: another chapter!

Happy Tuesday. :)

PS. I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik/Phantom, Nadir, Meg or Raoul.

* * *

Chapter Eighteen – Tuesday, May 24, 2011

The ball was tonight. The ball was tonight. The masquerade ball was tonight. The thought played over and over in Christine's mind, sending flutters to her chest and inspiring her heart to beat a staccato rhythm. The ball was tonight and she would be bringing Erik. As her date.

Christine and Erik had spent Tuesday morning touring Casa Loma, a grey stone castle commissioned by Lord Pellatt, an eccentric financier, and designed by Canadian architect E. J. Lennox. At the turn of the twentieth century, and several years into the castle's building, Lord Pellatt became bankrupt and the unfinished castle was sold and transformed into a tourist attraction. Guests, equipped with paper maps and headsets, could tour the building unescorted.

Christine, who'd taken the audio tour twice before, dispensed with the headsets and gave Erik an abbreviated tour of the parts of the castle she liked best: the Victorian bedrooms and bathrooms, the unfinished basement swimming pool, the greenhouse and gardens, and, her top favourite, the winding spiral steps that would through the tallest tower. She'd saved this part of the tour for last, so that she and Erik could enjoy the view of the castle grounds and the city that had sprung up around the castle fence.

Leaning against the narrow barred window, Christine traced the engraved initials left behind by hundreds of visitors. Her fingers grazed over the shape of a heart left behind by a couple. Her mind wandering, Christine wondered if the couple were still together, still in love, and if either person remembered the day they'd etched their initials into a window ledge at Casa Loma. The optimist in her hoped that the couple did remember, and returned every so often to trace the engraving and share sweet words. Christine felt her heart twist – why weren't her initials wrapped in a heart with someone else's?

Erik. There was Erik, whatever their relationship happened to be. She suspected Meg was right; Erik had to have feelings for her. Time spent together outside of their work could be explained by friendship. But flying across the Atlantic to meet her family? There had to be something there. She couldn't deny her own interest in the masked composer. He was brilliant, a genius even, and harboured the most compelling personality she's ever encountered. The right side of his face was masculine, firm, and the mask – a curiosity that she could ignore a little longer.

Emboldened by the dozens of arduous engravings beneath her fingertips, she called his name, drawing his attention away from the window and onto her. "Thank you for coming here with me, to Canada, to my city, to this…tourist trap of a castle."

"It's my pleasure. You've been an…enthusiastic tour guide."

"I'm not finished," she said, taking a breath and starting over. "Thank you for coming. It means a lot for me to have you here, more than you think. I like you Erik. You're amazing, really amazing and –"

Erik, who had been watching her, eyes meeting her own, cut off her confession and kissed her. His lips, cool from the damp tower air, met hers for a firm kiss that left Christine wanting to squeal in delight. When their lips parted, she wrapped her arms around Erik's middle and buried her head in his chest, hiding the massive grin that lit up her face. Erik's arms closed around her shoulders, hugging him securely to his torso.

"Thank you," she said, whispering.

"No, thank you," Erik said. "I've wanted to do that for months."

"Months? You should have said something."

"I invited you to dinner –"

"And didn't kiss me good night."

"I should have then? I'll make it a habit from now on," he promised.

Happy, Christine turned her head to kiss his again, lightly this time. Before she could kiss him a third time, they were interrupted by a scuffle on the stairwell. Other tourists were coming. With reluctance, Christine pushed herself out of Erik's arms and stepped away from the window ledge.

"We should head back down," she suggested.

"I was starting to like it here," Erik said, a smile forming beneath the edge of his mask. It was true, Christine thought. In the dim light of the tower, away from the bustle of tourists downstairs, he stood at his full height with his chin up and his posture relaxed, exuding confidence. As they descended the winding stairs, single file, she saw his back fall into a slouch and his head bow forward, bringing his hair over his mask and casting his face in shadow.

When they had both reached the bottom of the stairwell, Christine slipped her hand into Erik's and, together, they walked out of Casa Loma and returned to Meg's apartment to have a quick lunch and get ready for the charity masquerade ball.

[]

Before leaving England, Christine had splurged on a strapless black evening gown, which was now hanging in the closet of the room that had been hers when she'd lived with Meg. She'd chosen to wear her hair up in a loose twist. She'd had the purple streaks in her hair touched up before flying to Canada and, when her hair was pulled up, strands of purple could be seen spiralling through her hair. Christine's mask was made of thin grey fabric, cut to cover the area around her eyes and accented with black stitching and rhinestones.

Erik was quick to get ready and waited for her in the hallway while Christine finished her hair and make-up. When she deemed herself presentable, she joined her masked companion in the living room. Erik was wearing a vintage tuxedo and tails, with a white shirt and collar. He'd tied his hair back into a low ponytail, which curled at the nape of his neck. Tonight, he'd chosen to wear a black mask that covered most of his face from forehead to nose. Christine thought that he looked like an eighteenth-century gentleman on his way to the opera.

"You look marvellous tonight," she said, opening the conversation.

"And you are truly sublime, my dear," he answered, nodding appreciatively at her dress.

"Shall we call a cab then?" she asked, fetching her wrap and handbag.

"I've already called. There's a car waiting for us outside."

"You're quick," she said, slipping her feet into a pair of strappy black heels. Even at five-foot-nine, she could still wear heels and have Erik stand taller than her.

"I wouldn't want to disappoint," he said, pausing before adding, "Before we go, Christine, about this morning at the castle… if you don't want, or even if you'd rather we didn't… we could stop and you could end it."

He bit his lip, waiting for her reaction.

"That's not what I want," she replied. Christine walked over to him, closing the distance between them, and cradled one of his hands in hers. "I'm tired of being shy, Erik. Tired of doing what everyone else expects of me. I want to give this – to give us – a try. We don't have to be exclusive or put any labels on it, but I'd like to keep seeing you. And to keep kissing you."

It was enough for Erik. Using the hand that had been held between Christine's palms, he brought her fingertips to his mouth and kissed them.

"I'm glad. But I have to warn you, that I'm not a man who can be used casually," he said. "If you ever change your mind, you must tell me at once."

"Of course," she agreed.

"But enough of this heavy talk. We have a car waiting for us and a masquerade to attend."

"We wouldn't want to keep my dad waiting."

With those words, the newly-made couple left the apartment and stepped into the waiting taxi. The masquerade ball was being held in the ballroom of a luxury hotel in the city's downtown core, less than two kilometres away from Meg's apartment. The trip was fifteen minutes in city traffic and the cab driver dropped the pair off at the hotel's east entrance.

Upon entering the hotel lobby, Erik and Christine were met by her father, who'd been waiting with a group of business associates, all men in their forties and fifties. She greeted her father with a light kiss on the cheek and introduced herself and Erik to the lawyers, politicians, and business leaders in the group. Each of these elite men had worked with her father, through campaigns and consultancies, and spoke highly of him. When Christine and Erik were asked what they did for a living, she quickly learned that none of the men had heard of The Fifth Cellar. After explaining that it was a symphonic metal band, the questions ceased and the topic of conversation was directed back to city politics and the antics of the current mayor.

Feeling that the conversation had begun to exclude them, Erik suggested going into the hotel ballroom for a glass of wine. Christine agreed and presented their tickets to the registration desk. Christine left her handbag with the attendant, giving her smartphone and ID cards to Erik to put in his pocket.

Inside the ballroom, Erik found them seats at the side of the room furthest from the doors. Frustrated from her conversation with her father and his friends, she took the offered seat while Erik left to get them each a glass of wine.

"Christine? Is that you?"

Christine turned in her seat to see a young man with blonde hair and an emerald green mask walking towards her. Not recognizing the man, she nodded her head, guessing that he was another of her father's business associates.

"Yes, can I help you?" she asked. Where was Erik?

"It's me, Raoul," he said, lifting tis mask to show his eyes.

"Raoul!" Christine repeated, standing to say a proper hello. "I didn't know you'd be here tonight. How have you been?"

"I've been great, thanks. Working hard, but so have you – Meg tells that you've got an album coming out soon and a world tour starting next month."

"It's been hectic, yes. The record label gave us some time off before the tour starts, so Erik and I flew over to do some visiting."

"Erik?" Raoul repeated.

"He's our composer and keyboardist," she explained. "He wrote all four of the albums and did most of the recorded vocals too."

"So you're not –"

"Together? We are."

"He's a lucky guy," Raoul said, pulling Christine into a tight hug and kissing her on the cheek. "I always thought that we would end up together, but then you had to fly to Europe and join a rock band on me. Not fair."

"Excuse me," said Erik, who was standing behind Raoul and holding two glasses of champagne. "Kindly release my date. I won't be able to dance with her if you're clinging to her skirts."

"Erik!" Christine reprimanded. "This is Raoul, a good friend of mine," she said, emphasizing the word friend.

"It's alright, I have to get back to my father's table," Raoul said. "It was good to see you Christine and nice to meet you too, Erik. I'll fly out to one of your shows as soon as I can."

Raoul gave Christine's arm a squeeze before leaving to find his parents. Christine accepted the glass of champagne from Erik and took a few sips.

"Who was that?" Erik asked, his voice gruff.

"I told you; Raoul is a good friend. We took a few classes together in university, that's all."

"Good friends don't ogle and kiss other men's dates."

"Erik, it was nothing," she insisted. "Don't ruin this. I came here to dance with you."

Erik dropped the subject, but remained tense for the next hour, gripping Christine's waist tightly as they danced. After two glasses of champagne and a stolen kiss outside the ladies' room, his demeanour softened and Christine allowed herself to enjoy the evening with him, free of guilt or worry.

* * *

Let me know what you think.


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: OK, this is my shortest chapter yet, but I promise to post the next chapter later today. For those who asked, yes I've been to Casa Loma (I've lived in Toronto for nearly six years), but I haven't travelled abroad (yet) and haven't visited the sites I've described in previous chapters. Someday soon...

Thank you to SongforaWinter'sNight, angelicdamnation, sheepshanks, Angel's wings, o-MerWhoMisTorchLocked-o and "Guest" for your kind reviews.

Again, I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik, Nadir, Meg or Raoul.

Enjoy the fluff!

* * *

Chapter Nineteen – Friday, May 27, 2011

Richard had promised the band two weeks of rest before the tour began in June, but the label's promoters had managed to arrange and sell out two surprise concerts in Scotland. The Fifth Cellar would be playing in Glasgow tonight and in Aberdeen on Saturday. They would open the world tour next week with a show in Paris, at the Palais Garnier.

Once again, Erik, Nadir, Andrew, Michael, Edward, and Christine had boarded the tour bus and driven north. Travelling by bus with six performers, their manager, and their driver was a cramped affair. The bus was like a cross between a commuter shuttle and an RV. The bus had cushioned bench seating along the passenger side of the vehicle. A forward-facing bench seat and table were in the middle of the bus, providing eating and working space for the travellers. The rear of the bus harboured a small kitchenette with a bar fridge, microwave, sink, and coffeemaker; four hobbit-sized bunk beds; and a cramped bathroom with a mirror, toilet, and a sink that wasn't much larger than a bread toaster. On nights when they didn't check into a hotel, band members would have to take turns washing their hair and scrubbing up in the sink. The last person to clean up had the unpleasant chore of unclogging the sink of hair. Christine, Erik, Nadir, and Edward all had hair that was shoulder-length or longer, making the task all the more necessary.

Despite the cramped quarters, the band had settled into a travel routine, each person choosing his or her preferred seat. Michael, who owned over a hundred different board games, had brought a sampling from his collection onto the tour bus and was now teaching Christine and Nadir how to play Settlers of Catan. Andrew and Edward were watching television a few feet away and Richard was at the front of the bus, in the seat closest to the driver with his Blackberry in one hand and a beaten copy of Headbanger magazine in the other.

Erik was sitting at the back of the bus, a stack of books on the seat next to him. In the first two hours of their trip, he'd finished John Milton's _Paradise Lost_, an epic seventeenth-century poem about man's eviction from the Garden of Eden. The next book in his stack was _Le Morte d'Arthur_ by Thomas Malory. Christine's use of _Tristan und Isolde_ in her audition for the band had motivated him to sift through Arthurian legends for inspiration for their next concept album.

The motorway took them through the green fields and dense woods of northwest England. _Le Morte d'Arthur_ lay closed in Erik's lap, his thumb holding his place within its pages. Instead of reading, the composer had turned his attention to Christine. She was bent forward over the table, leaning onto her elbows and listening to Michael explain a move in their board game. Catching Erik's gaze, she smiled and gestured for Erik to join their game. Erik shook his head and lifted up his book to show that he was reading. Christine shrugged and turned her attention back to the board game, leaving Erik to his book.

The band had boarded the bus at seven o'clock in the morning and, with traffic, the driver had said to expect to arrive in Glasgow before three o'clock in the afternoon. Taking pauses in his reading, Erik's glances out the window revealed that the tour bus had crossed the border into Scotland. The traffic was lighter here and the bus arrived at their hotel in Glasgow at two-thirty. The group checked into their rooms and re-boarded the bus to meet their road crew at the concert hall.

After the crew had set up and the band had had lunch in a nearby restaurant, Erik led the band through their sound check. They were using the same set list they'd used in their London club shows and didn't need to run through each song. Instead, Erik confirmed their choreography, outlining where each musician would stand during each song and giving explicit instructions to the lighting and effects technicians.

Satisfied that everything was ready, Erik returned to the tour bus to catch a nap before the show started. Christine followed, leaving Michael, Andrew, Nadir, and Edward in the backstage lounge with a coffeemaker and a jittery venue coordinator.

"You've been quiet today," Christine said, opening the bus door for him.

"Have I?" he asked, stepping into the bus and taking a seat. "I've been trying to keep myself occupied with planning my next project."

"Trying to keep yourself occupied?" Christine repeated. She joined him on the couch and set her right hand down on his knee.

"Trying, yes," Erik said, tracing her hand with his fingertips. "You're very distracting."

"Am I?" Christine asked, flashing a coquettish smile.

"Very," Erik said.

Feeling emboldened by her teasing, he closed the distance between them with a soft kiss. Christine's left hand gripped the back of his head, her fingers tangling in his hair. Holding him in place, she deepened the kiss, opening her mouth and letting her tongue trace the outline of his lips. The unexpected touch of her tongue elicited a moan from Erik, who parted his lips and, tentatively, brought his tongue forward to touch hers. Christine purred in delight at the contact. Breathless, the couple parted. Not wanting to pull away, Erik left small kisses along Christine's nose and cheeks, barely touching his lips to her skin.

"I missed that," Christine said.

"I should kiss you more often," Erik agreed. Over the last week, they'd both been busy preparing for the tour and setting their homes in order before a long absence. They'd met for a hasty lunch in a café near Barnard's Park two days ago, not seeing each other again until the morning of the band's departure for Glasgow.

"I agree," Christine said, turning so she could lie back against Erik's chest.

Her warm body moulded to the curve of his torso and he wrapped his arms around her middle, gently holding her in place. He'd never held Carmen like this; their moments together were few and fleeting. In the Middle East, he'd had dalliances with some of the women there, but nothing as sweet as this. He was quiet for several moments, listening to Christine breathe and enjoying the feel of her in his arms.

"You make me very happy," he said. "I might have trouble letting you go."

"That's not so bad," Christine murmured, snuggling closer.

"I told you before that I'm not a man to treat casually."

"Erik, I know that. Do you think I don't notice how you act? How you behave around everyone else? You aren't casual in anything. I get it. But can't you just – for a little while – can't you just…be?"

"With you? I can try."

"Good, because I'm enjoying this too much to stop now," she said.

"I suddenly find that I'm no longer in need of a nap," Erik said, relaxing against the back of the couch.

"We could just stay like this until the show starts," Christine agreed, sounding dreamy.

"Maybe not quite so late," he said. "But for a short time."

Christine shifted again in his arms before sighing and closing her eyes. Erik noted the upward curve of her lips and decided that she must be content. They stayed on the couch in the tour bus for an hour. Christine, a pleasant weight in his arms, dozed, drifting between periods of wakefulness and sleep. Erik held her, stroking her hair or kissing her head every so often. When their time was up, Erik shook Christine gently and roused her with another passionate kiss. Both were reluctant to leave the privacy of the tour bus.

When The Fifth Cellar took to the stage, the concert hall was packed to capacity with screaming Glaswegians. Christine and Andrew took turns emceeing the show, playing to the crowd, and leading rounds of head-banging. From behind his screen, Erik played the keyboards and sung the melodies on several songs, leaving the audience to wonder where the mysterious voice was coming from. Long-time fans were more familiar with the band's line-up and backstory, and knew that Erik Desrochers both composed and sung on each of the band's records.

After playing a full set of fourteen songs, the band bowed to the audience and waved goodnight. By all counts, the show was a success – they'd sold out the concert hall and the fans had left happy, high on adrenaline. Fans, ticket sales: none of this mattered to Erik. He would remember the afternoon before the show, when he'd kissed Christine and held her in his arms for an hour. The afternoon when he found that he'd fallen in love with the soprano.

* * *

Have a great day!


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: As promised, here's chapter 20. I won't be able to publish another for a few days, so I've made this quite long.

I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik, Meg, Raoul or Nadir.

* * *

Chapter Twenty – Saturday, June 4, 2011

It was Christine's first visit to Paris and she had yet to see a mime, a baguette, or a beret. Instead, she'd found a city populated with cafes, fashion houses, and locals who found her Quebecois accent charming or childish. The band had arrived in the French capital late last night and had checked into their hotel to rest before the first night of their world tour.

To Christine's disappointment, Erik had left the hotel early in the morning to meet with the managers of the Paris Opera House, where they would be playing that night. The venue was an unusual choice for a heavy metal concert. Originally, the record label had booked them to play at Le Bataclan, a theatre house known for its eclectic mix of events which included rock concerts, circus shows, disco dances, and comedy performances.

When Erik had learned that the tour would launch in Paris, he'd used some of the connections he'd made as an architect on the opera house's restoration and scheduled The Fifth Cellar to play their first show at the Palais Garnier. To the press' knowledge, it would be the first time a rock concert was performed at the famed opera house and the record label had been required to increase their insurance coverage prior to the concert.

While Erik and Richard attended to the set-up and security arrangements at the opera house, Christine, Nadir, and Michael spent the morning touring the city. On Christine's insistence, the trio made the trip up the Eiffel Tower. Nadir, who had lived in Paris for several years, was less than enthusiastic about joining the throngs of tourists and visitors, but was persuaded to join the line after Christine offered to buy him a drink in one of the Tower restaurants.

From their vantage point in the tower's third level, she had an excellent view of the city. Below the tower stretched garden and parkland, which was surrounded by blocks of low-rise limestone buildings, in the old part of Paris. The Seine River cut through the city, winding past the Tower, the Louvre, the Palais Royale, and the Tuileries Garden. Further away from the city core, skyscrapers and office buildings rose out of the ground, creating a fortress of glass and concrete around the city.

While on the third level, Christine used her smartphone to take several photos of their view and of the three of them. Typing on her smartphone screen, Christine tweeted about their visit and her excitement for their first show and attached her favourite photo. Within seconds, her phone began to buzz with replies and retweets.

After sharing drinks in the restaurant on the Tower's first level, the trio took the stairs back down to the ground and hailed a cab to take them to their hotel to retrieve their stage clothes, then to the Palais Garnier to begin rehearsing their set list.

The opera house stood at the centre of a diamond-shaped city square and the taxi dropped them off at the Palais Garnier's front entrance, where Rue Auber met Rue Halévy. The opera house's façade was an impressive 32 metres high, or about the height of a ten-storey building. Inside and out, the building was opulent, with Grecian columns, marble floors, high ceilings, painted murals, and stone sculptures. For years, Christine had dreamed of visiting the Paris Opera House and seeing the great French and Italian operas performed here. Tonight, she would be performing here, albeit with a metal band and not in an opera troupe.

Security at the opera house was tight and men in black "Securité" t-shirts were positioned at every entrance. The foyer had been lined with velvet ropes to keep the concert goers in their queues and the auditorium had been partitioned to keep the fans in the lower level and to allow the VIPs and record label executives to sit in the upper level and private boxes. The auditorium's seats could not be removed, so fans would have to sit down or, more likely, stand in front of their seats.

The musicians worked through the sound check, playing each song on the set list. Erik made a running list of notes to share with the lighting and sound crew. Tonight's show would include an element of drama – Christine and Andrew would be playing the parts of Don Juan and Aminta on the stage. For the show, Erik had designed an elaborate range of set pieces to simulate the scenery of the major songs in the concept album.

The opening show of the _Don Juan Triumphant_ world tour would be the band's most elaborate concert ever and tension was running high in all parts of the opera house. The Paris show would include eight tracks from the new album, as well as favourite songs from their previous three albums. Every other show in the Don Juan Triumphant world tour would include two opening acts – Misery in Paradise and Acolyte – and would follow a more typical concert format with a set list spanning all four albums.

After a hasty supper of sandwiches and juice, the band disappeared backstage to change into their stage costumes. Edward, Michael, Erik, and Nadir would wear black poet's shirts and dark jeans to disappear into the stage's background. For the first act of the performance, Andrew would wear a black eighteenth-century gentleman's suit and Christine would wear a white corset over a loose white dress – similar to what she'd been wearing in the photo shoot for the _Don Juan Triumphant_ album cover.

The fans began to file into the auditorium and Christine could hear their excited chatter filling the house, their energy permeating the backstage. Richard was darting between musicians and technicians, ensuring that everything was as it should be before the show began. Erik, who had asked all the same questions during their sound check and rehearsal, was leaning against the door of an unoccupied dressing room.

Dressed all in black, with his black mask moulded to his features and his long hair tied back from his face, Erik looked every bit the part of a dangerous and seductive Don Juan. His posture was relaxed as he watched Richard flit about the stage, a bemused smile on the composer's face. Christine joined him and sat down on a plush couch across from the dressing room door.

"He has no idea what he's doing," Erik murmured, inclining his head in Richard's direction.

"He's just nervous," Christine said. "We all are."

"I'm not," Erik answered.

"Of course you aren't," she said. "You're almost…superhuman in your musical ability. The rest of us have to try a little harder is all. And the audience is going to be expecting a lot from us tonight."

"You'll do splendidly," he said, joining her on the couch. He ran his fingers over her cheek, ghosting her skin with his touch. "You always do. Your voice is seraphic and you, you are breathtaking, my dear."

"You're full of compliments tonight," she said, pulling his hand away from her face and leaning up to kiss him on the lips.

"Only for you," he answered. Erik broke the kiss and let his forehead rest against hers. "It's good to be back here, in this opera house."

The leather of his mask felt cool against her skin and, not for the first time, Christine resented the barrier between them. Someday, soon, she would ask him to remove his mask. As soon as the trust between them solidified into a stronger bond.

Nadir walked past, interrupting their moment of silent affection. The guitarists' brown eyes widened and he smiled. "Finally! I knew you two would eventually figure out you fancied each other. Took you both long enough."

Erik did not address the comment, instead reminding Nadir of their impending show start.

"Right then, I'd better get ready to go on," Nadir replied. To Christine he said, "I'll see you on stage. Take care not to wrinkle your pretty dress."

Christine blushed and stood up to return to their makeshift lounge for one last check of her hair and makeup before they walked out onto the stage. They had less than three minutes before they were due to start their set and, if she didn't leave Erik's side soon, Richard would find them and – who knew – perhaps he'd decide to host a press conference to announce her and Erik's budding relationship. Anything to sell more records.

In the auditorium, the fans were beginning to chant, "Fifth Cel-lar! Fifth Cel-lar! Fifth Cel-lar!" In lieu of jumping up and down, many of the audience members were sitting in their chairs and stomping the tiles beneath their feet. Christine felt a rush of adrenaline pulse through her veins, sending electric tingles through her skin. Her heart was beating to the rhythm of the audiences' chants and her stomach was dancing with nervous energy.

Backstage, Andrew gripped Christine's hand and asked if she was ready to go on. Was she ready? Absolutely. Christine returned Andrew's hand squeeze and nodded her eagerness.

Erik was the first to walk onto the stage, using the shadows cast by the set pieces to obscure the audience's view of him. Michael, Nadir, and Edward followed, taking their places at their instruments. The audience roared in excitement. Last, Christine and Andrew joined the rest of the band on stage. The cheers grew louder and the fans leapt out of their seats to get a better view. The show was about to begin.

"Bon soir Paris!" Christine called into her microphone. The greeting was returned back as screams from the audience.

"We're very happy to be here with you tonight," Andrew said. "Tonight is a very special night. Tonight is the first night of our world tour to promote our new album – _Don_ – _Juan_ – _Triumphant_!"

Michael began to beat a slow, steady rhythm on the bass drums, teasing the audience with the drum line of their new single, "An angel for a ghost."

Are you ready?" Christine asked, riling the fans up even more and feeding off their energy. She was itching to start the show.

"Our first song for you tonight – 'For a Northern girl'!" Andrew cried into the mic.

Michael crashed down on his drums, beginning the song. Erik followed, playing a lively melody on the keyboard. Nadir and Edward ripped in to the introduction, the guitar line soaring over the drums and synths.

Christine knew the song – had rehearsed and recorded it for months. Waiting for her cue, she looked over to her shoulder to the set piece of a winter storm scene that Erik was playing behind, wishing she could see him.

He was playing faster now and Christine waited for the rapid melody to subside before beginning to sing.

_A chill wind shakes the treetops  
Sending needles to the frozen ground  
Weak souls fear the cold air  
In the snow, her feet make no sound _

Erik's voice echoed her, line for line, the richness of its timbre sending chills through her body. Erik was an imposing figure, wearing his dark mask like a second skin, but the full force of his personality was released in his voice. When he was angry, he could fill the room with his voice, never needing to shout. When they were alone together, his voice was soft and heavy, like velvet. Now, as he was singing with her, Erik's voice was a commanding tenor, snaking through the thud of the drums and the wail of the guitar.

Christine closed her eyes, before joining Erik for the chorus. Onstage beside her, Andrew was lip syncing to the sound of Erik's voice and beginning to approach her on the stage. Acting her part, Christine spun around Andrew, weaving through the set pieces of snow-capped forests as she sang. Andrew followed, pursuing her through the trees and joining her on the stage for the song's conclusion. Before her, the faces of the audience swam in a dizzying cyclone of screams and waving hands.

The band raced into the next two songs "Vagabond" and "Champion of men." Christine's parts in these songs were more limited and she stood to the side of the stage while Erik sang and Andrew alternated between lip syncing and backing Erik's vocals with his own. Christine sang the bridge of each song, her voice twisting and lifting as she pushed higher and higher. Her training with Erik had pushed her range higher and she now sung at a coloratura level.

After "Champion of men" finished, Christine darted backstage to change costumes. Andrew remained on the stage, speaking to the audience while the sound technicians played the _Don Juan Triumphant_ overture on the opera house's speaker system.

Christine jogged into her temporary dressing room, where she was met by a hairdresser and a costume assistant. She stripped off her white dress and corset, leaving the clothes piled on the dressing room chair. The costume assistant brought her next ensemble: a floor-length midnight-blue dress that sparkled when it caught the light. The hairdresser helped her pin her hair up into a messy twist, held in place by a dozen bobby pins and several applications of hair spray. Her makeup – dark eyeliner and smoky grey eye shadow, would stay the same throughout the performance.

Content with the costume change, Christine returned to the shadowy backstage to wait for her cue to re-join the band on the stage. From the back, she could see Erik. He was leaning over his keyboards, poised to begin playing. Some of his hair had come loose from the hair tie and had fallen over his shoulders. The sleeves on his shirt were rolled up and, on the visible side of his face, the stage lights reflected the shine of sweat on his forehead and nose. The composer looked both undone and focused, a passionate combination. The forest set piece had been replaced with a black gauze curtain that barely concealed the keyboardist from the audience. Christine hoped that, one day, the world might know the man behind the curtain.

"Our Don Juan is a powerful man," Andrew said, crooning the script into his microphone. "He is feared by men and desire by women. Don Juan has everything he could want, except the affection of the beautiful Aminta, a woman he has come to love. To win her, he makes a deal with a powerful alchemist…"

The lights on the stage extinguished and blue and red strobe lights swirled around the stage, refracting off the smoke that was coming from the machine at the base of the stage. It was Christine's cue to join Andrew on the stage and begin the second act of the performance. Erik played the opening notes of "A deal with a false friend" and the audience screamed with excitement. Christine stepped out onto the stage, grounding herself in the notes that were coming from behind a black gauze curtain.

The second act showed Don Juan, played by Andrew, making a deal that backfires, stripping him of his strength and handsome appearance and leaving him as an ugly, old man. In his decimated state, Don Juan haunts Aminta, following her on her trips through her village. When war strikes the village, Don Juan tricks the enemy invaders, leading them through shadowy forest paths into traps set by the villagers. Once again holding the favour of the gods, Don Juan's health is restored.

For the final act, Christine changed costume once more to a red strapless corset and full red and black skirts. The hairdresser pulled her hair out of its twist, letting the hair sprayed curls tumble down her back. Onstage, Don Juan celebrates his victory with the village's leaders and leaves the feast to woo and seduce Aminta, winning her love. For the performance's finale, Andrew, as Don Juan, held Christine by the waist and dipped her low over the stage while she continued to sing.

_You have crossed oceans, fought the enemy at my door  
A hero you were not, my Don Juan.  
Take me with you on nights of adventure  
I'll follow you wherever you may lead. _

Erik's voice filtered through the curtain, amplified by the microphone over his keyboard.

_You have brought me to test everything I am  
Shown me love, beauty, and goodness, Aminta  
Without you, I am nothing –  
With you I am Don Juan – triumphant!_

The song ended with the crash of Michael's drums and the thunder of the audience's applause and cheers. Andrew lifted Christine back to a standing position and she stepped away from his, shaking. It was over! Their first enactment of Don Juan Triumphant. And she was standing here, still whole, unbroken by the performance. The excitement of it thrilled her and she broke into a giddy smile. She was Christine Daaé, Aminta, front woman of The Fifth Cellar. As the crowd roared and the strobe lights danced before her eyes, she felt invincible.

* * *

Reviews are appreciated.


	21. Chapter 21

A/N: Aren't Sundays the best? Especially in the summertime, when the weekends feel longer. This chapter covers the aftermath of The Fifth Cellar' tour opener in Paris at the Palais Garnier. (For the record, I really don't think that the Palais would let a metal band play on their stage, but I couldn't resist including it as a setting in this story. It's fiction, right?)

Thanks to my two reviewers from the last two chapters: Angel's wings and Savor-Each-Sensation. Hope to see a few more reviews for this chapter.

I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik, Raoul, Nadir or Meg.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-One – Saturday, June 4, 2011

Backstage, Christine was still reeling with adrenaline, energy ebbing in and out of her. One minute, she wanted to jump around the room and run through the halls of the opera house screaming, and another minute, she wanted to collapse on the couch and fall asleep for a week. She chose the middle path and joined the rest of the band for a celebratory bottle of champagne backstage.

On her way to the backstage lounge, she passed Erik, who was packing up his keyboards.

"You can do that later, come have a drink with us," she implored, pulling him by the wrist.

"Christine – you were unbelievable," he said, pulling her to him and crushing his lips down on hers.

Fuelled by adrenaline, Christine gripped the back of his head, bringing his lips closer and pulling his body flush with hers. Erik deepened the kiss, running his tongue along the seam of her lips. He put his arms around her waist, lifted her up, walked a few paces, and set her down with her back against the stone wall and is body pinning her in place. The hard stone was cold and rough against her uncovered arms and shoulders, but Christine was too distracted by Erik's kisses to care.

Gasping for air, she pulled her head to the side, breaking their kiss. "That's one way of celebrating."

"Better than champagne?" Erik teased.

"Much better," Christine decided. "But I still want to celebrate with the others. Come with me – you shouldn't be alone tonight."

"I'll come with you on one condition," Erik said.

"Name it."

"Join me for a tour of the Palais Garnier."

"Sure, we can join tomorrow morning's tour group –"

"Not with a tour group," Erik said, interrupting. "A private tour. When I was working on the building's restoration, I spent a lot of time working in the lower levels of the opera house. There are a dozen hidden passageways and disused trapdoors throughout the Palais. I can give you a far better tour than any of the guides."

"Lower levels? How deep does the opera house go?"

"There are five levels – known as cellars. The fifth cellar is where I spent most of my time, draining the underground lake and strengthening the building's foundations. It was the inspiration for the band's name."

"I'd love to see it then," she agreed. "But first – champagne with the band!"

Christine and Erik left the stage, taking the narrow hallways through the back of the opera house to the lounge. Nadir and Michael were on one couch, an open bottle of champagne between them. Edward and Andrew were leaning against the opposite wall, glasses in hand. Christine and Erik grabbed glasses from the table in the centre of the room and sat down on the couch opposite Nadir and Michael.

Christine and Erik extended their champagne flutes and Michael poured the sparkling wine, spilling drops down the sides of their glasses and onto the carpet. Christine raised her glass into the air, cheering "To the Fifth Cellar!" and clinking her flute with Erik's. Nadir, Michael, Edward, and Andrew added their flutes to the toast and the sounds of clinking glass filled the lounge.

Their celebration was interrupted when one of the security guards poked her head in the door, looking for Christine.

"I'm here, is there something wrong?" she asked.

"I have someone here who says he knows you and was hoping to say hello," the guard said.

"Oh," Christine answered. "Sure, who is it?"

"He says his name is Raoul Saint-Denis."

"Oh, yes, I'll come out and say hello," she said, surprised. Still wearing her stage costume from the third act of their show, with her face and underarms sweaty from the stage lights, Christine wasn't at her most presentable. All the same, it would be rude to turn Raoul away, pretending not to know him.

She followed the security guard out of the lounge, past the stage, and into the Palais Garnier atrium where Raoul was sitting on a bench, waiting with a bouquet of red roses In his lap. He was dressed in a burgundy polo shirt and dark blue jeans – hardly the sort of attire to fit in at a metal concert, she thought. Upon hearing Christine and the guard enter the atrium, Raoul turned his head and grinned with excitement.

"Christine!" he cried, standing up when he saw her turn the corner.

"Raoul, it's good to see you. This is definitely a surprise."

"I told you I'd be flying over to see one of your shows," he said, smiling and pulling the sticky soprano into a tight hug. When he let go, he offered her the bouquet of roses, which she accepted with a polite thank you.

"Well – did you enjoy the show?"

"Metal isn't exactly my style, but, Christine, you were amazing! I've heard you in recitals before, but I didn't know you could sing like that."

"Thanks, Raoul, I can't claim all the credit. Erik is a superb vocal coach."

"Well, I think you should quit the group and perform solo," Raoul said. "You'd make a killing as a classical soprano."

"I don't think that'd be such a good idea, Raoul," she answered, not sure if he had been serious or joking.

"Keep it in mind for later then. My father manages the investments of several arts groups and recording labels, I'm sure he could arrange you a meeting."

Christine heard footsteps following her into the atrium and turned to see Erik had joined them.

"I don't think that will be necessary," he said. "If she chooses to embark on a solo career, our record label can help her arrange it."

"Thank you, that's…good to know," Christine said, feeling uncomfortable with the way Erik had followed her and snuck into their conversation. The composer locked eyes with Raoul and came to stand beside her, wrapping an arm around her waist, his eyes never leaving Raoul's.

"I was hoping I could take Christine out for a drink, or a late dinner to celebrate," Raoul said.

"Raoul, if I'd known you were planning to be here tonight, I would've been happy to have a cup of coffee with you," she answered, frustrated. "But I can't go tonight."

"C'mon Christine – I flew all the way out here for you," he pleaded.

"I can't, Raoul, not tonight. I – I have plans with Erik. Maybe we can get together tomorrow or the day after. How long were you planning to stay in France?"

"I flew in for tonight and tomorrow, but I have to go back on Monday. I'm meeting with a new account on Tuesday."

"Oh, that's too bad, then. Could we do lunch together tomorrow?" she suggested. "I think our tour bus leaves Paris at two in the afternoon."

"Two o'clock sharp," Erik emphasized.

"Okay, that's fair," Raoul said, sounding annoyed.

"I'm sorry, it's just that you arrived out of the blue," she said, trying to finish the conversation as quickly as was polite. While Raoul was a good friend, she was annoyed that he would show up, unannounced and brandishing flowers, and expect her to dash off with him without a second's notice. Fifteen minutes ago, she'd been excited to explore the opera house with Erik, and now she found herself trying to end an awkward conversation with an old friend.

"No, it's okay," Raoul repeated. He stuck a hand in his side pocket and pulled out a creased business card. "Here, my mobile number's on my card. Give me a call when you wake up tomorrow, ok?"

"I will; thank you for the flowers."

"You deserve them. You were amazing up there, Christine," Raoul said. "I don't want to hold you up any longer, so I'll see you tomorrow, right?"

"Yes, of course." Christine freed herself from Erik's grip and gave her friend a half hug. Raoul held onto her for a moment, then kissed her on the cheek before letting go and walking out of the opera house.

Behind her, Erik grumbled about the kiss, his eyes following Raoul's exit.

"You don't have to be like that, Erik," she said. "Like I told you before, he's just an old friend."

"He's a fop."

"A fop? I've never heard you use that expression before."

"He's a foolish young man who cares too much about his appearance and spends too much time coveting what isn't his."

"If you're referring to me, I'm not 'yours' either, Mr. Caveman," she said. Erik look exasperated, so she continued, "I understand your meaning, but you're going to have to just trust me. If this – us – whatever you want to call it, is going to work, we have to be able to trust each other. I like you Erik, and I'm not interested in screwing this up, do you understand?"

"I understand, although I'd still prefer it if the fop left us alone," Erik answered. "Now that I have your attention, I don't find myself interested in sharing you."

"No sharing required. But can we change the subject? I remember being promised a guided tour of the Palais Garnier," she said, reminding him of their plans.

"Alright, but follow me closely. Some of the passageways are narrow, others are in poor repair. I wouldn't want you to twist your ankle during our tour."

"I'll be careful, I promise," she said, sliding her hand into his.

"Shall we then?"

Erik led Christine on a walk through the main floor of the opera house, stopping in each room to show her how the building had come together and discuss how the room might have been used when the Palais was opened in 1875. Along the way, Erik pointed out valuable and unique features of the opera house, its stairways, and its decoration. When construction on the theatre began in 1861, its architect Charles Garnier, an unknown 35-year-old, had envisioned the grandest, most opulent building in Europe. Construction took fourteen years and cost over 36 million francs.

Erik then took Christine below into the lower levels of the opera house, showing her where props and stage equipment were kept. The fourth and fifth cellars were poorly lit and Christine held tight to Erik's hand as he led her through twisting passageways and damp corridors. At the lowest level of the opera house, in the fifth cellar, Erik showed her the edge of the underground lake, shining a flashlight over the water's still surface.

"When Garnier dug the foundations, he was unable to pump out all of the water," he explained. "Instead, the architect designed a double wall to prevent to make the foundations watertight. Over the years, water froze, cracking the stone and the foundation weakened. My team worked to repair the damage, resetting the stone and bracing the foundation of the building."

"You worked down here?" Christine asked, glancing about. The lowest level of the opera house was damp, cold and frighteningly dark. The air smelt of mildew and slimy stone. Working here must have been unpleasant.

"For four months, yes. We brought lamps and electric heaters, which chased away some of the darkness. I wouldn't recommend setting up residence here, but I did find it peaceful. Underground, you can't hear the noise of the city or feel the stares of the crowds."

"Have people always stared?" Christine asked, curious that he'd mentioned his mask.

"Since I was a boy," he said.

"Is it uncomfortable?"

"Sometimes," Erik answered. Christine's eyes had adjusted to the dark and, with the light from Erik's flashlight, she could see him touch his mask as he paused. "You must never touch my mask."

"I think I understand," she said, her voice soft. "But, someday, if you'd like, you could show me. What you look like wouldn't matter to me."

"You must never see," he repeated, his voice growing harsh. "And you will never – never – touch my mask."

Christine was silent, frustrated at being shut out, at not being trusted. Mute, she nodded her head. The cold air was chilling her and she crossed her arms over her chest to keep warm.

"Good," Erik said, watching her. "You're cold, we should return to the surface. The others will be missing you."

* * *

Reviews are candy.


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: Another chapter up. Watch out for plot twists. Enjoy!

I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik, Meg, Raoul, or Nadir.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Two – Tuesday, June 21, 2011

After Paris, the band toured through France, Germany, and Italy, playing a show almost every night. Despite the gruelling performance schedule, the group showed no signs of flagging. Each performance was an opportunity to win over a crowd. Their touring partner, Acolyte, was a Swedish power metal band fronted by Anita Begine, a soprano about the same ago as Christine. After working and travelling in the company of men, Christine welcomed Anita with enthusiasm, inviting her to ride on the Fifth Cellar tour bus and sharing lunch and shopping breaks with her.

Erik had enjoyed hasty suppers and stolen moments with Christine over the last three weeks. Since their venture into the lower levels of the Palais Garnier, she hadn't mentioned his mask again. Instead, she focused on learning as much as she could about him. He'd never answered so many questions – even in the press interviews he'd given over the phone after he'd first launched The Fifth Cellar. And Christine had an unending supply of queries. Everything from his childhood, to his architectural career, to his romantic liaisons, to his account of the first four years of composing symphonic metal music was fair game to her.

Christine had even dared to ask about his work in the Middle East. He'd been vague, telling her that he'd worked as a general architect for a royal family, taking on small projects and special requests. She'd asked for examples, details, and names. He'd told her that his work had been confidential, which had paused her questions for the time being. When he'd brought the subject up in a conversation with Nadir, the guitarist had advised him to be frank, to tell her the truth of their work with the government. She would understand, he'd said. Erik doubted that the young soprano would empathize with him. He'd built a prison in the royal family's home! Men had died there. She wouldn't, couldn't understand and he would never tell.

Tonight, they were playing in Madrid, the home city of The Fifth Cellar's former lead soprano, Carmen Guidicelli. As a gesture of goodwill, Tabby Cat's management had arranged for Carmen and her new, self-titled, band to play as a second opening act. Erik and Nadir had resisted, citing tensions that still existed between them and their former front woman. Carmen had been fired from The Fifth Cellar by letter after a year of poor behaviour and declining vocal ability. Erik had also arranged for the letter, with an accompanying explanation, to be posted to the band's website.

Carmen had been furious, calling the dismissal an insult to her character and threatening libel suits. Tabby Cat Records, which had been just as unimpressed with the lack of decorum Carmen had showed in public, had stood with Erik and The Fifth Cellar. Seeing an undivided front, the disgraced soprano had withdrawn the suit and formed her own band, taking her fans with her. Several months later, the dispute between Erik and Carmen lay unresolved and Erik and Nadir were not eager to share the stage with her.

Against his custom, Erik left most of the stage set-up and sound checking to the road crew and spent the afternoon in the hotel restaurant and pool with Christine. Outside, the Spanish summer was hot and humid. The locals took long lunch breaks through the early afternoon, preferring to sleep or stay indoors during the hottest part of the day. Erik and Christine followed suit, keeping to the air-conditioned hotel and restaurant.

Over lunch, Christine had asked about Carmen's dismissal. Not being part of the metal community during the time of Carmen's departure, she was understandably curious about her predecessor. Erik had given her as candid an explanation as possible, citing Carmen's declining voice, her inability to accept criticism, and her long string of drunken escapades. In England and especially in Scandinavia, metal musicians were treated as minor celebrities and followed in tabloids, magazines, and gossip websites. Carmen, with her propensity to attract attention, had provided many months' worth of fodder for the media, attracting an unwanted form at attention to the band.

"When you meet her, you'll see it," Erik said, thinking carefully before continuing. "Carmen has a personality that is both enormous and forceful. She craves attention – whether it's accolades from critics, or her photo in a gossip magazine, it's all the same to her. She needs to be _seen_."

"And you prefer to be invisible," Christine countered.

"I do, yes. And working with Carmen was like oil mixing with water. It took a lot of energy – from the label, from Nadir, from myself – to forge a working partnership with Carmen. After three years, Nadir and I were spent and we decided, with support from the others, to fire Carmen from the band."

"Very publically," Christine commented. "But why go on an international search for your next lead singer? Why not choose someone from another band?"

"I wanted someone different, an outsider," he said. "Someone who would join us out of love of music, and work with me to create something new, something bolder. I didn't write _Don Juan Triumphant_ for Carmen. I wrote it for a classical soprano. And this album is just the beginning."

Christine was quiet, chewing her falafel sandwich as she absorbed his words. Setting her pita down onto her plate, she asked, "what about tonight, then? You must be nervous to be performing with her again."

"Nervous?" he repeated. "No. Just anxious for the day to be over. I don't trust Carmen and, while I doubt she would show any animosity towards us onstage, I anticipate some awkward moments backstage."

"Should I stay clear of her then?"

"She has her own act now, with her own fan base. I don't think she sees you as a threat, although she might dislike you for taking her place. Give her a wide berth if you can," he advised.

Christine nodded her agreement and returned to her sandwich. She was a good girl, Erik decided. A bit too curious for his liking, but well-intentioned. He'd been in love with her since he'd first seen her at her audition. She was beautiful, but it was her voice that had attracted him. If only he'd met her at the beginning of her studies. He might have swayed her to pursue music full-time. At their show in Glasgow, when they'd kissed in the tour bus, he'd accepted that he loved her and had been wrangling with his feelings in the months since.

They left for the outdoor concert venue in the late afternoon. The area surrounding the stage had been gated off by security and the gates were set to open at seven o'clock. Acolyte would go onstage at eight o'clock, followed by Carmen Guidicelli's band. The Fifth Cellar was due to start their set list at nine o'clock.

Erik and Christine met the rest of the band in the large white tent that served as a backstage; the other musicians were memorizing tonight's set list and checking that their instruments were ready for tonight's show. Richard had suggested several changes to tonight's set. Carmen's band would be performing covers of two Fifth Cellar tracks, "Call of the sea nymphs" and "Nightfall," so these tracks would need to be removed from their set list and replaced with more material from _Don Juan Triumphant_. At Richard's insistence, Carmen would be joining The Fifth Cellar onstage for "Waking deceptions" and singing the track with Christine. Having both front women sharing the stage for a classic Fifth Cellar song would help to placate fans who were disappointed by Carmen's dismissal. Erik saw the logic, but wasn't enthusiastic to hear Carmen's screeching voice rip one of his songs to shreds.

Once the changes to the set lists had finalized and the instruments sound checked, members of all three bands took turns changing into their stage clothes. Outside, the fans had begun to file into the gated arena, running to claim places close to the stage. The show would be one of their largest tour shows – the open-air pit could hold up to 13,000 people. Their biggest performances were given at festivals; Wacken Open Air, the world's largest heavy metal music festival, had sold over 80,000 tickets for this year's event.

At seven o'clock, Acolyte began to play. The Swedish band was more guitar and drum-heavy than The Fifth Cellar and Anita, their lead singer, alternated between a high soprano voice and the guttural death grunts and screams more often performed by male vocalists. Acolyte ran through eight songs, warming up the crowd. By the end of their set, several fans had begun screaming for Carmen and The Fifth Cellar to take the stage.

Carmen's band was next. Her back-up band members were all dressed in identical black stage clothes, with their instruments pushed to the sides of the stage. Carmen, wearing a long red and black dress which matched her dyed red hair, was the focal point of their stage set-up. An unremarkable singer, she knew how to thrill a crowd. Carmen played an energetic set which included several songs from her solo album, which Erik guessed had been written and arranged by a professional songwriter. Erik cringed when he heard her perform "Call of the sea nymphs." Although the song had been written for Carmen, she could no longer carry the high soprano lines between the chorus and the bridge. Onstage, she sounded shrill and breathy. Still, her fans applauded.

After a short break between performers, The Fifth Cellar stepped onto the stage. There were no set pieces or hanging scenery on the outdoor stage for Erik to conceal himself behind. Instead, he'd asked that the band's banner, with the Fifth Cellar logo, to be hung low enough to cast a shadow over his keyboard. The sun had begun to set in the Andalusian sky and the lighting and pyrotechnic crews had been instructed to keep Erik's corner of the stage as dark as possible.

"Still hiding I see?" Carmen asked, stepping behind him.

"I prefer for the audience's attention to be focused on my music, not my face," he replied, keeping his voice low.

"That's bullshit and we both know it," she countered. "It's too bad about your face. You have so much talent you could be getting credit for. Instead, Andrew gets the spotlight, the interviews, the girls."

"Get off the stage Carmen," he said, ignoring her last comment.

"I'll be back," she said, walking off the stage, humming to herself.

At the front of the stage, Christine was calling out her hellos to the audience. Michael had begun to drum the opening beat of "Fool's call," a single from their last album, _Nighttime Carnival_. Recognizing the rhythm, the fans started to yell with excitement. Christine began to sing the opening notes, her voice crawling higher as Erik's fingers danced across the keyboard. Blasts of fire lit up the front of the stage, sending the audience into a frenzy of devil horns and head banging. With the crash of Michael's cymbals and the wail of Nadir's guitar, Andrew and Christine started to sing the opening verse.

After the song ended, they continued into their set list, playing "An angel for a ghost," "In dreams I come," and "Vagabond" before taking a water and banter break.

"How are you all doing tonight?" Christine asked. From the ground below her, 13,000 fans roared.

"Are you ready for something special? We have a surprise planned for you," Andrew said. Again, the crowd shouted its excitement, fists raised into the air.

"Our next song is from our second album. It's called 'Waking deceptions' –" Christine said. Several fans began to scream, cutting her off mid-sentence. She waited, then continued, "and I'd like to welcome Carmen Guidicelli to the stage to join us for this song."

Erik began to play the opening keys. "Waking deceptions" started on a soft chord, his fingers quickening to a frenetic pace. Carmen jogged onto the stage, her arms lifted in a triumphant gesture. Erik brought the keyboard to a rising crescendo, where the other musicians began to join in. Carmen and Christine hadn't rehearsed the duet, but Erik had given the instruction for Christine to sing the song as she usually would and for Carmen to sing with her, harmonizing on the chorus.

Onstage, Christine began to sing the opening verse.

_Nightmare times come a-knocking at my door  
Nightmare rhymes come and knock me to the floor_

Carmen opened her mouth and began to sing, at a louder volume, as if she were baiting Christine.

_When demons scream and the lights are few  
You know your dream, it speaks a gospel true._

Christine increased her volume, dropping her voice lower for the chorus. Carmen kept her voice high, singing louder yet, so that her voice was almost a screech.

_But when dawn awakes and the angels rise,  
When the sun comes up, you got no alibies.  
It's just a waking – waking deception  
You know it's just a waking – waking deception._

Christine kept pace with Carmen, who had led a duel for vocal dominance. The older soprano was pacing around the stage, walking in circles around Christine. The younger singer maintained a low, dulcet voice into the second and third verse. From his seat at the keyboard, Erik could see the frustration evident on Carmen's face. She'd been trying to get Christine to falter. Nadir, seeing the display, slid to his knees, breaking into an early guitar solo and drawing the audience's focus to him. The fans, oblivious to the conflict on the stage, cheered Nadir through the solo.

The song ended on a high note and Christine's voice spiralled above Carmen's, hitting notes the older soprano could no longer reach. With one last crash of the drums, the song ended and the audience applauded.

"Insipid toad," Carmen muttered. Her microphone caught the insult and the crowd gasped in surprise.

Erik's hands clenched with rage. How dare she? The bitch had now put Christine in the uncomfortable position of choosing whether to ignore or to challenge Carmen. With 13,000 fans watching the show and many holding video cameras, the situation was growing tense.

"Toad?" Christine repeated, giving Carmen an opportunity to back down.

"I was replaced by a croaking child!" Carmen declared.

Christine was still, holding her microphone in her hand. Erik debated running onto the stage to throttle Carmen, but decided that assault wasn't the best way to handle things. At least while they were in view of the public.

"A croaking child?" Christine repeated. The singer dropped her microphone to the ground, letting the echoing thud echo into the audience. "I'm unplugged now, let's see if I croak?"

Erik watched Christine's back straighten and her hands go to her stomach as she took a deep breath. When the breath ended, she began to sing, drawing on her classical training to project her voice out into the audience without the help of a microphone. She repeated the melody from the end of "Waking deceptions," bringing her voice to the top of her range, before rushing back down for the finish. Erik felt a rush of pride – he had helped create this voice, training and shaping her range for this moment.

After Christine finished, Carmen shoved past her, leaving the stage. Several audience members booed at her exit. Her most loyal fans kept silent. The disgraced singer stalked to the back of the stage, stomping past Erik. Seeing her former musical partner and paramour, her face reddened and she lifted a finger to blame him for her humiliation. Two security guards, probably ordered by the label, rushed to the soprano's side and led her off the stage.

Andrew, bless him, broke the tension by asking the audience to scream as loud as they could. The noise from the pit filled the venue, breaking the silence and relaxing the musicians. The show wasn't finished yet. Michael turned on his stool, looking to Erik for a signal. The composer nodded his assent and the drummer began the beat out the rhythm to their next song.

The Fifth Cellar played the remainder of their set list as if nothing had happened. The pyrotechnic flares went off on cue. The lights followed their routine path across the stage. From behind the banner, the flashes and bursts were a muted distraction for Erik. Christine might have held her own, but his anger at the Spanish soprano burned brighter and shot higher than the flames that erupted from the stage.


	23. Chapter 23

A/N: I noticed quite a few typos in the last chapter, so I'll be going back to fix them later today. Everything I've posted is - essentially - first draft with very little to no editing. I'm also almost out of pre-written material - I have 25 chapters completed and have plans in place for another 7 chapters - so updates will be slowing down soon.

Thanks to all who reviewed the last chapter - emilovesyouxp, trrmo77, JustAPotteringGleekyStarkid, angelicdamnation, kpmindc, EriksAngeDeLaMusique - you guys rock.

As always, I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik, Meg, Raoul and Nadir.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Three – Tuesday, June 21, 2011

She was shaking. Her spat with Carmen was over, the show had ended to wild applause, and the members of The Fifth Cellar (save Erik) had taken a bow. Her fingers shook and her gait was unsteady as she followed Nadir and Michael backstage.

Christine felt as if she'd just thrown mud at an angry lion. By showing off onstage after Carmen's insult, she'd no doubt angered the other singer and further damaged the already fragile relationship The Fifth Cellar maintained with their former front woman. Would the other band members share Carmen's anger? Had she gone too far in defending herself in front of the audience? She didn't think so, although her opinion may not have been shared by the 13,000 people who'd watched the spectacle, many of whom had come to tonight's show to see Carmen.

Erik and Richard were in the tent behind the stage, waiting for the rest of the band to join them. The composer had his arms crossed over his chest and a sneer plastered to his face. Richard was pacing, his eyes darting between Erik and the musicians in Carmen's backing band. The soprano was nowhere to be seen. Acolyte's members were in another tent, packing up from the show.

"What were you thinking?" Richard cried, directing the accusation at Christine.

"That she should defend herself!" Erik roared.

"He's right, Richard," Nadir interjected. "If she hadn't said anything, or sung that melody, she would've looked like a ponce. Instead, she was bloody brilliant!"

"Can I speak?" Christine asked, interrupting Nadir.

"Go ahead," Richard said, breathing out a sigh.

"I don't know about you, but I don't get called an 'insipid toad' onstage all that often," she said, keeping her voice firm. "I'm twenty-three years old and I plan to have a career that extends past next week. I have to be able to defend myself when someone insults my performance in front of a crowd."

"All right then!" Richard said. "The label's relationship with Ms. Guidicelli was already in shambles before tonight. We'll just have to make the best of it and answer any questions that come through from the media."

"Make the best of it?" Erik repeated. "I think not. Who is she signed to? I want her contract terminated and her career brought to an end."

"Isn't that a bit harsh?" asked Edward. "Carmen might have made a cock-up of things on stage, but it was all an accident, I expect."

"Harsh? She's a sorry excuse for a singer to begin with. Tonight was her last chance," Erik replied. If he was any angrier, Christine would have expected to see foam flying from his mouth. "You saw her – she insulted our front woman onstage, in front of 13,000 fans and who knows how many video cameras."

"Ms. Guidicelli is signed to our parent company, P & S Inc. We can't just have her fired, no matter how much you think she deserves it," Richard said, stepping between Erik and Edward.

"Why should you even have a say in this?" Edward asked, pointing to Erik. "We all know that you fancy Christine."

"That has nothing to do with any of this!" Christine yelled. In a softer tone, she added, "I'm the one who was insulted and I say the matter's closed. Finished. It's been a long night and I would really like to get back to my hotel room for a cool shower and a few hours' sleep."

"Go back to the hotel if you like. I can settle this. Now where is she?" Erik asked, beginning to walk out of the tent in pursuit of Carmen.

Christine grabbed his hand, pulling him back towards the group. "It is settled. Can we please all go back to the hotel now?"

"This is _not_ settled, Christine," he said, pulling his hand loose from her grip.

Carmen walked past their tent, searching for her manager. Seeing her, Erik bellowed for her to get inside their tent. The singer paused in front of their tent entrance, took in Erik's angry features and aggressive stance, and backed away.

"I demand an apology!" Erik ordered. "After which, I never want to see your face – or your name – ever again."

"Please, Erik," Christine said, pleading with the composer to calm down.

He ignored her.

Carmen, still standing outside their tent, replied "Apology? You won't get one. Keep your front woman in check, Erik."

Christine grated her teeth. _Keep her in check?_ Erik was her composer and her tutor, not her keeper. Christine didn't want an apology from Carmen – she'd done her damage and Christine had retaliated. It was close to one o'clock in the morning and she couldn't focus on anything beyond her desire for a cool shower to rinse the make-up and sweat from her body. Why was Erik being so stubborn?

"You –" Erik snarled, lumbering towards Carmen like a bear intent on its prey.

Nadir grabbed Erik by the arm, pulling him back into the tent. Erik resisted, rolling his shoulders to release his friend's grip. Michael latched on to Erik's other arm and, together, they hauled the angry composer back into the tent.

Erik, his eyes still on Carmen, spat, "get out of my sight."

The soprano did as asked and hastily scampered away from the snarling composer. Christine stood watching, her feet rooted to the ground.

"You're insane!" Edward cried. "He's bloody insane. You know what? I'm done. I quit." The bassist picked up his instrument and his bag of belongings and walked out of the tent.

Richard, who was near to pulling out his hair, followed, calling after the wayward bassist.

What had Erik done now? He hadn't listened to her. Carmen had insulted her – not him. He'd had no reason to get himself involved and certainly had no reason to lash out at Carmen like he had. And now Edward had quit the band, just three weeks into their world tour. Anger and frustration ran their course, racking her thoughts and catastrophizing the situation. Without Edward, they'd have to cancel shows. The breakdown of the band would be her fault.

She wanted to scream at Erik, to let loose the rage that was clouding her mind. Instead, she followed Edward's lead, picked up her bags and left the tent in search of a taxi to take her back to her hotel room.

Seeing her leave, Erik broke out of his trance, his expression softening into one of concern. "Christine, wait! Let's discuss this."

She ignored him, not looking back as she left the tent. In the morning, when her anger had subsided and she could think clearly, she would talk with him. If only to solve the puzzle of seventy-five remaining tour dates and no bassist. She couldn't have a rational conversation with him right now. Not after having kissed him, having shared _everything_ with him. How could a relationship with him work? He refused to listen to her, chose not to respect her wishes. And his temper.

She had to leave, had to get away from him, from The Fifth Cellar.

A line of taxis were waiting outside the concert pit. Christine began jogging towards an available cab, ignoring the stares and whispers coming from a small crowd of straggling fans. The taxi took her back to her hotel room, where she had a quick shower and changed into a pair of satin pyjama pants and a snug camisole. She yanked back the covers of the hotel bed, lay down on the mattress and pulled the covers over her body. She couldn't sleep. Her mind was buzzing with questions and what if scenarios. Already, guilt was gnawing at her belly for walking out on Erik and the others.

She picked up her smartphone and dialled Meg's number. Her friend had moved to England last month and had set up an apartment in the town where she would be teaching. At last, the two friends were in the same time zone, at least when Christine was home. The call connected and range several times before going to voicemail. Christine hung up, not wanting to leave a message. It was almost two o'clock in the morning; Meg was probably asleep.

She scrolled through the list of contacts on her phone, pausing on Raoul's name. He was six hours behind her on the clock and would be just finishing his supper by now. The hit the call button and waited for the call to connect. After two rings, Raoul answered.

"Christine? I haven't heard from you in ages. How are you?" he asked. Always sweet, her Raoul.

"I've just had a rotten day," she confessed, launching into an explanation of what had happened that day, from her conversation with Erik in the hotel restaurant, to the onstage clash, to the blow-up after the show.

Raoul listened, reacting with surprise as she described Carmen's insults and Erik's strong reaction. When she'd finished regurgitating the events of the past two hours, her friend paused on the other end of the line for several seconds.

"Raoul, are you still there?" Christine asked.

"Yeah, I'm here. Just, Christine, I have to know, are you and Erik – together?"

"We are, or were. I'm not sure right now," she confessed. "I'm still pretty miffed that he didn't back down from Carmen when I asked him to. I understand that he was angry, I get that. Their conflict goes way back. But he still should have left it to me."

"Have you considered quitting and coming home?" Raoul asked. "This guy seems like a real piece of work. If you're butting heads with him on a regular basis, then maybe it's not worth it."

"I can't quit now," she said. "We're in the middle of a tour and I'm bound by contract until the end of the year."

"Can't you break your contract? And what happened if the band breaks up?"

"It's not a matter of 'can't.' I don't want to break my contract, Raoul. I'm not quitting. If the band breaks up, I'll ride it out somehow."

"So you're really sticking through with it, then; but what about Erik? You deserve better than a masked madman."

"He's not a masked madman," Christine protested. "Masked, yes. But he's not mad. He just doesn't have the best people skills. Anyhow, I can't answer that question. Last week, I thought that I was falling in love with him. Right now, I don't know how I feel about him. It's complicated."

"Sounds like it," he said. "I'm just worried about you. Come home soon, okay? I miss you."

"I miss you too, Raoul. We're playing in Toronto on July 12th. Come see me then."

"You know I will. I'll be in the front row."

"There aren't any rows, Raoul," Christine said, laughing at his naiveté. "No one sits down at metal concerts. It's standing room only."

"Then I'll be standing as close to the stage as I can, with my elbows out."

"You do that," Christine said. She yawned into the phone.

"What time is it over there?" Raoul asked. "You must be exhausted."

"It's a little after two-thirty in the morning," she said, wincing.

"I won't keep you on the phone any longer. Good night Christine."

"Good night Raoul."

She ended the call. Looking over the screen of her phone, she saw alerts for four missed calls and six text messages. One call was from Nadir. Another was from Richard. The other messages were from Erik. She opened her voicemail account and turned on the speakerphone to let the messages play out while she lay back in bed.

_Christine, it's Erik. Where are you? We need to talk about what happened tonight. I over-reacted. Call me._

_Christine, this is Richard calling. I've settled with Ms. Guidicelli and she's agreed not to perform with The Fifth Cellar again. I haven't been able to reach Edward. If he's serious about quitting, we'll need to hire a new bassist. Jack from Acolyte might be able to fill in for the next gig, but I haven't confirmed with their manager. Christ, this is a bloody mess. Call me back as soon as you can. We'll sort it out in the morning. _

_I hope you got back to the hotel alright. It's Nadir here. I know Erik was acting like a wanker tonight, but we'll chat tomorrow. I'll ring you again after breakfast. We can talk over lunch if you like. Get some sleep. Bye._

_Christine, it's Erik again. It's been two hours – where are you? Please call me when you get this. I'm sorry about what happened after the show. I behaved boorishly. I'm so sorry. It won't happen again. Please call me._

Turning over, Christine shut off her phone and muted the ringer before rolling onto her side and going to sleep.

* * *

Dun dun dun...


	24. Chapter 24

A/N: Aaaahhhhh, it's chapter 24. The good news? More touchy-feely Christine and Erik moments. The bad news? I'm almost out of pre-written chapters, so updates will be slowing down in the next couple months. (Job hunting has to take first priority.)

Thanks again to all reviewers for your awesome words.

Once again, I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik, Meg, Nadir or Raoul.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Four – Friday, July 8, 2011

Seventeen days had passed since the episode in Madrid.

And for those seventeen days, Christine had kept her distance. She hadn't quit the band – a miracle, considering his appalling behaviour that night – and poured as much energy as ever into rehearsals and performances. On the tour bus, she would sleep in one of the bus's bunk beds, play board games with Michael and Nadir, or else catch up on one of her favourite television shows. She hadn't shunned him, per se, but avoided spending time alone with him.

He'd apologized to her the next day, an apology which she'd accepted, but Erik sensed that she hadn't forgiven him. He'd tried sending her flowers and inviting her to supper, but she'd refused both offers. When he'd asked, she'd said that she needed space and time away from him to interpret her feelings.

"You once said that I couldn't have a casual relationship with you," she'd said, using his own words against him. "Can't you see that I'm trying to respect that? I need to figure out how I feel before I can choose whether to have a serious relationship with you. And I need to know that you can respect me enough to give me some time to do this. Between what happened with Carmen and what happened a few months ago with the leak of the _Don Juan Triumphant_ overture, I'm just not sure. And you still don't trust me enough to take off your mask."

For seventeen days, Erik had been on his best behaviour, establishing a pleasant working relationship with their temporary bassist, Jack from their touring partner, Acolyte. He'd complimented Andrew on one of his performances, despite the growing tension between the two since Edward's departure. He'd paid the bar tabs for both bands after their show in Copenhagen. He'd used gentler tones when working with the techie and road crews. He'd even been co-operative with Richard when he'd requested a statement for their website after Edward's departure. But after seventeen days, Erik was beginning to feel the strain of impatience. Hadn't she noticed any of this? Why hadn't she accepted his latest offer to take her out for supper? The impasse was stifling. Erik burned with the need for Christine to make her choice.

Tonight, they would be playing in Oslo, their last show in the first European leg of their tour. Early in the morning, they'd fly to Montreal to start their North American tour. Tonight's show would be in Sentrum Scene concert hall, one of Oslo's largest venues, holding up to 1750 people.

The band was sequestered in the tour bus, jammed in by city traffic. Over the last month, the bus had become like home for the musicians. With a kitchen, bathroom, bunks, and living space all contained within the vehicle, it may as well have been an RV.

Christine was in the rear part of the bus, lying on her back in the lower bunk, with her knees bent up. She'd balanced a book against her thighs and propped her head up on pillows and blankets to get a good angle for reading. Erik approached her, keeping his balance as the vehicle twisted and turned through the city. Her hair was tousled from the pillows and her face was bare of make-up. Erik thought that she'd never looked more beautiful.

"Christine? Can I –?"

"Yeah, come on in," she said, rolling over on the bunk to make room for him. Was she inviting him to lie down beside her? Not wanting to waste the chance, Erik crouched down and squeezed his tall frame into the small space she'd created. He was careful to leave space between them and, as a result, one of his legs and half of his torso leaned off the side of the bunk. He hooked his right leg around one of the bunk posts, anchoring him in case the bus made a sharp turn.

"How are you?" she asked, her green eyes locked on his. It was a standard conversation opener.

"Been better," he replied. What else could he say? In the weeks following the incident with Carmen, he'd missed everything about her. The feel of her teeth pulling on his lower lip. The softness of her breasts pressed against his torso. The snug feel of her arms around his neck. The way time froze when they were in the midst of a conversation. He missed his Christine.

"I don't know what to say," she said. Her eyes were watering and her breath was hot and moist against his exposed cheek.

"I'm not used to giving others what they want," Erik began. "But I want to give you everything you've ever wanted. I want to make you happy and I want to keep you with me. I'm a selfish man. This is difficult for me."

"I know, I just need a little more time," she pleaded.

"If you won't tell me that you're ready to end this…separation, then tell me that you miss me, that you still want to know the man behind the mask."

"I do, Erik, I do," she whispered. "I miss you – more than I should really. And of course I want to know you, at least as a friend."

His hopes lifted when she said she missed him. If she craved his company, then perhaps she would return. And the relationship could be as it was. But, when she uttered the word "friend," his hopes faltered. Friend? He was in love with her.

"As a friend?" he repeated. "We cannot be friends. I do not have friends."

"That's not fair," she said, her eyes misting again. "Nadir is your friend."

"Nadir isn't a beautiful young soprano who I've shared kisses with."

"Don't put me in this position, Erik. All or nothing? I either be with you, in a serious relationship, or I give up all contact with you? That's an ultimatum."

"Do you have any idea what it's like? To watch you sing every day, to see you on this accursed bus –?"

She sighed and closed her eyes to gather her thoughts. "Of course I know what it's like. I'm living it too. Just please give me a little longer. Just a couple more days. I need to know that I can do this."

"A couple more days?"

"Before we reach Toronto," she promised.

Toronto. The city of first kisses. The tower where he'd held her in his arms, felt the graze of her lips against his. No matter her decision, he would keep that one moment in his memory and treasure it always.

"And no later?" he asked. Already, he was devising plans to whisk her back to Casa Loma and tell her he loved her.

"No later," she agreed, finding his hand and squeezing it. It was the first touch they'd shared in weeks and the gesture was like an intake of oxygen after holding your breath.

"I should go," he said. "Let you finish your reading."

"Yes, it's just –" she began, starting to describe the book in her hand, _The End of Growth_. "Never mind. Thank you Erik."

He nodded his head and rolled off of the bunk, stretching his shoulders as he stood. The tour bus bunks were built for eight year-olds, not fully-grown men. The bus lurched around a corner, causing him to lose his balance and tumble into the side of the bunk. He hit his head on the posts and grunted in annoyance.

"Are you alright?" Christine asked, wincing at the accident.

"I've been better," he said, for the second time in their conversation. He rubbed his temple, massaging the injury site. "Enjoy the book."

Erik left Christine at the back of the bus. His mood was dark and his thoughts remained with the soprano lying in the bunk. Not wanting to be alone, he joined Nadir and Andrew at the tour bus' table. The two musicians were engaged in a fierce debate about Andrew, their former bassist.

"He won't be back," Nadir decided. "Even if he begged to come back into the fold, I wouldn't want him back in the band."

"That's awfully unforgiving of you," Andrew said.

"Not really. I'd rather work with a new bassist who's keen to learn the material than with a former bassist who can't make up his mind about what he wants."

Erik agreed, "Edward's gone. Jack's a talented musician, and he'll stay with us through the tour. Once we're back in the studio, we can begin to search for someone permanent."

"Edward's been with us for three years. You can't just replace that kind of chemistry and charisma," Andrew argued.

"Chemistry? Charisma? What do you know about either?" Erik asked, his voice lowering into a growl.

"A lot more than you some of us," Andrew insisted. "At least I don't spend each night hiding behind a curtain and pining after stuck-up singers."

Erik fought to control his temper, biting back insults aimed at the idiot sitting across from him. Their voices were low and Christine, who was concentrating on her book, wouldn't be able to hear them. If he started shouting, or if he provoked Andrew to shouting, she would hear. And if she needed to know that he could contain his temper. For this reason, and this reason alone, he held himself in check.

"She's not stuck up and you know it Andrew," Nadir said. "You're just in a rut because she's not interested in shagging you."

"Hmmph," Andrew grunted. "Doesn't know what she's missing."

The bus made one final lurch, sending all three men sliding in their seats as the bus stopped to a halt behind the Sentrum Scene concert hall. Richard stepped out of the driver's compartment and knocked on the wall of the bus to get everyone's attention. Michael, who'd been napping on the couch with headphones over his head, sat up with the force of a spring, clueless to the hostile conversation that had been taking place beside him.

"We're here," Richard announced. "Best get ready before the show. Are any of you lads – and lady – hungry for some supper? I can have the event manager order in something for you all to eat."

"We're not hungry," Erik said, sitting up and grabbing his bag to leave the bus.

"Definitely not hungry," Andrew concurred, eyeing Erik with distaste.

The band departed the tour bus and used the stage entrance to get into the concert venue. Inside, they were welcomed by the event manager and shown where to set their things down. Their instruments and gear would be arriving by truck within the hour. In the meantime, the road crew was busy setting up all of the connections and mapping out where the lights would fit to best frame the stage. Erik pulled out several copies of the night's set list and passed them around to Christine, Andrew, Nadir, Michael, and Jack.

As the waited for their equipment to arrive, the band settled into the backstage lounge with drinks and snacks. Nadir, Christine, Anita, and Jack sat on one long couch, passing plates of cut vegetables between them. Andrew and Michael sat with the other members of Acolyte, drinking beer at a table. Erik stood near the door, watching the others banter.

From the opposite side of the room, Erik heard Andrew make a comment about Edward, "he was right to quit. Without Carmen, the band isn't what it used to be. Christine's good, but she'll never be able to relate to the fans in the same way."

Nadir also heard the comment and the guitarist was quick to jump to Christine's defence, "record sales are up, ticket sales are up, and the press keeps asking for interviews – how is the band not 'what it used to be?' Do we have some sort of problem, Andrew?"

"I thought this discussion was finished," Erik said.

"Well, it's not," Andrew said, getting bolder with each swig of the drink in his hand. "Edward was a bloody good bassist, one of the best I've seen, and we lost him on account of you."

Andrew pointed at Christine, who looked surprised at the accusation. The surprise faded from her face and her forehead creased into a frown. "How dare you!" she cried. "If I hadn't defended myself, I would have looked like a spineless jellyfish in front of all those fans. I had to stand up for myself, and for the band. What are you trying to get at Andrew?"

"Just that – the band's not what it used to be. And the fans'll figure it out soon enough," the vocalist said.

"Andrew!" Richard exclaimed. "This is not the time to share that attitude with the rest of us. The Fifth Cellar is a team – a winning team. Can't your negativity wait until after the show, or after the tour?"

"After the show is fine with me," Andrew said, scowling. Around him, the other musicians began to exchange whispers and curious looks. "Tonight'll be my last show. Carmen's manager has made me an offer to join her band."

Christine and Richard both gasped. Erik clenched his teeth. Join Carmen's band? Did the idiot not realize that the diva would upstage him, steal from him, and then spit him out as soon as she'd gotten the praise and the money she craved? And what of The Fifth Cellar and _Don Juan Triumphant_? The band, the album, all of Erik's many hours of work were beginning to crumble away. How could they face the crowds at the next round of shows? Andrew had acted as Erik's stage double for years, eliminating the need for awkward prop set-ups and disguises. Whether he was lip syncing or harmonizing, the younger man brought a face to Erik's music, a face that the deformed composer could only dream to possess.

Erik bit back his frustration and steeled himself for the upcoming show. Outside the lounge, he could hear the road crew beginning to unload the truck, rolling the heavy equipment across the stage on dollies and lifts. It would take them about an hour to put all of the equipment in its place, connect the instruments to the venue's speaker system, and sound check each of the band's instruments and microphones. The fans would begin to line up outside about an hour later. Erik focused his attention outward, picturing the queue of misfit kids and downtrodden adults, each dressed in shades of black and grey. Chains, fishnet stockings, corsets, t-shirts, jeans, long hair; this was the uniform of a classic metal head.

"You can't be serious!" Richard said, breaking the silence of the room. Andrew, Christine, and Richard began to talk all at once, each venting their frustration and trying to convince the others of their point of view. Not wanting to listen any longer, Erik stepped out of the room, wanting to hear only quiet. Once out of the room, it was only a little farther to leave the stage area. He pulled a bottle of rum from the caterer's cart outside the lounge and jogged out to the stage, dodging left and right to avoid techies, trolleys, and wires. Hopping off the stage and over the barrier, Erik walked into the audience pit.

There were several bar stations surrounding the venue's floor. The bar table closest to him was closed, its fridges locked and its cash register draped in a dust cover. Erik leaned against the table and, using the wall of the table as a support, slid to the ground, not caring if the seat of his jeans caught dust from the floor. With his knees bent and the bottle of rum cradled in his palms, Erik began to drink.

One swig for Andrew. Another for Edward. A third swig for Christine and what should have been. Another swig for The Fifth Cellar. One last guzzle for _Don Juan Triumphant_, his greatest work.

* * *

Small cliffy. So small.


	25. Chapter 25

A/N: Here it is - the last chapter that I've pre-written, and the lyrics to "The seduction of Aminta." Enjoy!

I do not own the characters of Erik, Christine, Raoul, Meg or Nadir.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Five – Sunday, July 10, 2011

Montreal.

Christine should have been happy to be here. She'd been born in this city and had spent the first seven years of her life here. The smell of the St. Lawrence River, the parade of college students in the street, the feel of excitement, culture, and _happening_ in the air – these things should have made the young soprano feel at home. Instead, she found herself missing London, missing the life she'd had there.

Everything had been so much simpler in London. Tiring, yes. Frustrating, yes. Exhausting, even more so. But she'd had a singular goal in mind: finish the album without angering Erik. Now, on tour, there were so many complications. Already, she was counting the days until the end of the tour. Standing in Montreal, the city she'd learned to walk and speak in, she'd never felt further from home.

Since Andrew had quit the band and joined Carmen's entourage, Erik had been left as the band's sole male vocalist. Hiring a new singer would be time consuming. It had taken Christine more than a month to learn all of The Fifth Cellar's songs, spanning four albums. A new singer would have to wait until the end of the tour. The tension she'd felt from Erik since Madrid had heightened when Andrew left the band. She knew that Erik disliked the singer, could hardly stand working with him, but even she had to admit that Andrew offered a sort of protection for the reclusive composer.

Christine was standing on the stage, holding her microphone in one hand while Michael checked the sound on his drums, tapping the bass pedals and snapping his stick against the snare, toms and cymbals. Tabby Cat Records had left Michael's drum kit in Europe and had ordered a similar kit to be ready for the North American leg of their tour. Transporting the drums and cymbals by plane was almost as expensive as paying for a second drum kit, Christine had learned. Nadir and Jack were taking turns testing their guitars. Nadir would pick his instrument, his fingers flying up the neck and across the bridge of the instrument, and then he would pause, wiggling his index finger to sustain a note. The sound reverberated through the auditorium, echoing off the walls and filling the space. Jack would do the same; the low notes on his bass guitar thundering like the footsteps of a hungry giant.

Erik had set himself up behind a set mesh curtain. The smoke machine was placed in front of his keyboard and, during the brighter parts of the concert, the smoke would obscure the crowd's view of the composer.

She could hear the sound of hundreds of fans lined up outside the building. Tonight's show was going to be huge; The Fifth Cellar hadn't played in Canada for three years. Their last North American tour had been cancelled due to a mix of scheduling conflicts and Carmen's antics.

Richard signalled for the band to move off of the stage and wait in the lounge. They ticket takers would be letting the fans inside in the next ten minutes. The remaining members of The Fifth Cellar joined the members of Acolyte in the lounge and the eight musicians shared a platter of sandwiches that had been brought by their managers.

Erik was sitting in a chair at the corner of the room, not touching his food. He was wearing a black dress shirt, with the top three buttons undone. Christine could see a tantalizing sliver of skin and a sprinkling of chest hair beneath the shirt. The composer was quiet, his gaze intent on the laces of his shoes. The half of his face that she could see was unreadable. He looked deep in thought. This would be his first performance without Andrew in almost four years.

She moved her chair to sit beside him and rested her hand on his arm in a gesture that she hoped felt comforting. Erik twitched at the touch, shaken from his reverie.

"Christine?"

"Yes, it's me. You looked so… quiet. I came to join you," she said.

"That's a mixed metaphor," he commented. "A person can't _look_ quiet. They can sound quiet or they can look unhappy."

Christine smiled at the correction, not sure if it was Erik's idea of a joke, or just a strange sentence in an awkward moment. "Tonight's going to be amazing."

"Do you really think so?" he asked, looking her in the eye.

"You're a talented performer. It was your voice on all of those albums, your voice coming from the back of the stage at all of our concerts. It's no different."

"But there won't be a face to my voice," he said.

"No, but the audience will see your silhouette," she said. "And, if you work up the courage, you might try performing at the front of the stage in our next show. You might be surprised at the audience's reaction. They want to see you, Erik."

"I don't think so," he answered, taking a sip of water.

"You'll be fantastic tonight," Christine said. "Just wait and see."

"You've always been the optimist in our entourage," he said. "A perfect foil to Carmen; it's no wonder she hates you so."

Christine sat in silence, letting the implications of Erik's words work their way through the labyrinth tunnels of her mind. What could she say? There was no polite answer to the composer's statement. Silence curtained the pair. Beyond the stage doors, the audience was filling the auditorium. Acolyte took to the stage soon after, the fans roaring their approval. The band played an eight-song set, warming the crowd.

A scuffle in the hallway brought Christine from her trance. Richard's head appeared in the lounge's doorway. The manager's eyes lit up when he caught sight of the pair. "You two! Ready?" he barked. "You're on in ten minutes."

Christine nodded, mute. The emotions curdling in her stomach had melted her tongue. The performer in her was ready to run onto the stage, to draw her energy from the audience. The woman in her was sorting through her feelings. Erik. In the many months they'd known each other, he'd become more than a colleague, more than a mentor. His rage, his creativity, his impulsiveness – these traits were connected in artistic madness. He was a compelling and dynamic man, and she was drawn to him. Felt a pull, a tugging deep in her belly. Yet, she pitied him, felt his pain and hated his anger.

The pair sat together for several moments, letting the chanting of the crowd filter through the stage curtains and wash through the backstage lounge they were sitting in. Outside the room, past the edge of the stage, hundreds of Montrealers were waiting for The Fifth Cellar to start their set. Christine's father was somewhere in the audience, probably watching from the balcony. She could picture him: "dressed down" in a polo shirt and khakis, his glasses wiped clean, and his shoes newly polished. He would be standing next to the railing, earplugs at the ready and a plastic cup of gin and tonic in his right hand. No doubt he'd brought a work colleague or two with him; he had few friends outside of the office.

"We should join the others," Christine said, nodding her head in the direction of the other band members, who were standing in a loose circle around a table of refreshments.

"Yes. Yes we should," Erik agreed, standing in his chair.

"This is going to be our best show yet," she decided, trying to reassure the reluctant keyboard player. On their way over to the group, she took his hand in hers and gave it a quick squeeze. He looked shocked by the brief press of her fingers and, for a moment, his visible eyebrow lifted in surprise before his face became unreadable once again.

Christine had one final sip of water while Richard gave a last-minute pep talk to her and the rest of the band. The band manager fussed over the set list and repeated directions to Jack, their temporary bassist.

On the other side of the curtain, fans were beginning to chant, "Fifth Cel-lar! Fifth Cel-lar! Fifth Cel-lar!" One of the techies dimmed the lights, giving the band time to jog to their places on the stage. The spotlights flicked on and the beams of light swivelled to illuminate Chistine, Michael, Nadir, Jack, and the screen that Erik was hidden behind. Below the stage, the crowd exploded with cheers and salutes.

"Bon soir mes amis!" Christine called into her microphone. "It's a pleasure to sing for you tonight in my hometown of MONTREAL."

At the mention of their city, the crowd roared with delight. Christine swelled with pleasure; she was home. The soprano continued with her opening remarks, introducing each member of the band and finishing with Erik.

"A couple nights back, the band had a creative disagreement and, as a result, Andrew left the group to pursue another venture. In his stead, our composer and keyboard player, Erik Desrochers, will be singing for you tonight."

Christine watched the audience's reaction, noting the surprised faces, the whispers, and the sage nods from long-time fans. Some of them had seen videos from their last gig in Norway. Andrew had quit before they took to the stage, forcing the band to perform in a stressed-out daze. Tonight would be better, Christine swore.

"Our line-up may have changed, but we're just as excited to play for you tonight. Montreal, are you ready to rock?"

Behind her, Michael began to tap the bass drum in a steady pounding rhythm. After four bars, he added the hi-hat, snare, and toms, blending the sounds of each drum and cymbal in his kit. The loud crash of a ride cymbal signalled for the rest of the band to begin.

The group played through the first half of their set without any mistakes. Erik's voice, which had always carried from behind his gauze curtain, harmonized with hers. With Andrew out of the band, Christine found it easier to perform with just Erik. Working with both singers had required guesswork and finesse. With only Erik, her focus was tightened and her voice soared.

During one of their final songs, Jack fumbled a bass riff, but Nadir was able to compensate with an impromptu solo, drawing the audience's attention away from the struggling newcomer. Their set list, which had evolved from their theatrical opening show in Paris, now concluded with "The seduction of Aminta." At Erik's request, the band would play under dimmed lights with a fog machine to obscure the audience's view of the stage. Christine supposed that it added to the sensuality of the song.

She rolled her head forward, swishing her hair to the melody coming from Erik's keyboard. The soprano felt a soft touch behind her and spun on her toes to see Erik standing there. She could still hear the sound of the keyboard playing; he was using a track, a dangerous move. She was tempted to nudge him in the direction of his instrument, but then he began to sing.

_Why are you here? You came, so love me  
Oh, why do you fear The shadow of me?  
Your eyes are ice and the moonlight melts on your tongue  
And I can't resist the call of the song you have sung._

The sound of his voice snaked through the air, its smoky timbre a gentle rub in her ear. On her cue, she answered, singing her verse.

So come inside. The fire's warm here  
Even devils hide. From the storm here  
Just dig your mails deep into the soul of my flesh  
And rip me open so the blood of our bodies can mesh

The song continued, the characters of Don Juan and Aminta baiting each other with sultry words and a desperate lovers' tango. At the close of the song, Erik drew Christine to his chest, crushing her torso to his. Through the thin fabric of their stage clothes, she felt his chest rise as he drew in enough air to sing the final verse.

Christine,_ I adore you  
Take all of me  
_Christine,_ I love you  
Run away with me_

For a second, she was confused. Don Juan – Erik – was singing to Christine, to her. He grasped her cheek in one hand and melted his mouth to hers in a passionate kiss. Her breath was ragged and beads of sweat had collected along her hairline. Dazed, her lips remained closed for several seconds. As she felt Erik's tongue push along the seam of her lips, memories of other kisses and of an afternoon in the sun at Casa Loma filled her mind. Her senses returned and her libido roared to life. She kissed him back, threading her fingers through his hair and pulling his body tight to hers. The only word that she understood was "want" and the only name she could remember was "Erik."

The lights came back on and, startled, Erik slackened his grip on her. Christine nearly crumpled to the stage floor, but steadied herself to address the fans crowded around the stage, many of whom had no doubt seen Erik and Christine's kiss and were wondering whether it had been part of the act or a spontaneous moment between the two performers.

Christine looked back towards Erik, hoping for a signal from the composer. He's already fled the stage, silent as a ghost. Embarrassment and confusion filled her stomach – had her father seen? The thought drained her face of colour. Three seconds felt like three minutes and Christine couldn't think of anything intelligent to say.

The front woman raised her fist into the air in a metal salute and yelled, "good night Montreal!"

* * *

I've already started writing chapter 26. Wish me luck!


	26. Chapter 26

A/N: This is a short chapter. I considered rolling it into the next chapter, but I liked how it stood on its own. It's almost a parenthesis between chapters 25 and 27, a little breath between plot turns, if you will.

This has been a longer than usual wait between chapters - as many of you know, I've been job hunting with vim and vigour. I'm happy to share that I've landed a great promotion at the university I work for, so you can expect more regular updates.

As always, I do not own the characters of Christine, Erik, Meg, Raoul or Nadir.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Six – Sunday, July 10, 2011

The audience had seen him. They'd seen him. They hadn't screamed – in terror anyhow – but Erik doubted that they'd realized that they'd seen _him_.

Like a madman running from a mob, the composer dashed backstage, past the lounge, and into one of the dressing rooms. He slammed the door shut behind him. Through the metal door, he could hear Christine bidding the crowd a good night. The rest of the band would bow and leave the stage. Over the years, he'd played hundreds of shows but had never taken a single bow. Andrew, prat that he was, had been only too happy to accept applause that Erik had earned.

The door blasted open, slamming into the wall with a sharp crack that could have left a dent in the drywall. Christine bounded into the room, lunging with each step.

"What was that about, Erik?"

"About-?"

"That kiss! In front of the whole audience!"

"I don't think the whole audience saw – we were obscured by the smoke machine," he pointed out.

"I don't give a damn about the smoke machine," Christine cried. "The fans, the concert photographers – my goddam father was out there tonight. I told you that I needed more time to figure this out, to make a decision. Why are pushing me? Why here?"

"Because I'm a bloody scoundrel!" Erik roared, frustrated by her questioning. Didn't she see? Didn't she know? He loved her. God, he loved her. Even as she stood in the doorway of his dressing room, perspiring in her stage clothes, her makeup smudged into the corners of her eyes, and her hair tousled from head-banging. He loved her. And they'd been so good together – the music, the kisses, the conversation – all of it so brilliant, so perfect. Couldn't she see?

At his admission of culpability, her eyes lost the hard glint of anger. "Erik – you can't just kiss me like that in front of… in front of everyone."

She could be so dense sometimes! She stood there in the doorway, her chest still heaving from her dash backstage, and she didn't know. He pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned against a table, gritting his teeth to keep his words in check. How could she not know?

A moment passed, and then another. The two musicians remained still, fixed in a tableau of angst. Erik's mind filled with poetry, with magnificent prose he imagined would bring her back to him. But each line he conjured seemed too flowery, too adorned. The truth was simpler.

"Since Glasgow," he said, the words tumbling out like bricks.

"I don't understand," she said, her voice a few decibels above a whisper. "Tell me something that makes sense."

"I've loved you since the show in Glasgow. When we hid away in the tour bus before the show," he said. Her eyes widened into round hobbit windows, but he continued. "I was at your first audition. You sang 'Mild und liese.' I was drawn to you, even then, and, from that day on, you were my Aminta. You were unforgettable. This silence, this impasse is unbearable. I love you Christine."

She was still. The air is the room felt dense. He couldn't move, couldn't breathe this thick air until she spoke. She blinked. Again. Her lips moved as she experimented with silent words. There was something there, something she wanted to say. Erik pushed himself forward, shifting his weight from the table to his feet. Each pound of his heart struck his chest like a hammer to a gong.

"Erik," she whispered. "Since Paris. I've loved you since Paris."

Air. He could breathe again. She loved him!

"But, Erik…" she began.

There was always a "but" wasn't there, he thought.

"I'd like to see you, to see the man I love," she said. "Without your mask. It doesn't have to be today, or tomorrow. But I want to see you someday and I want to kiss your face."

His first reaction was to hiss, to shrink away from her. But this was Christine, his Christine. And she loved him. Could he hide his face from her forever? It was doubtful. He placed his left hand across his mask and ran his finger along its seam. The material lifted slightly, letting a puff of cool air through to the mangled skin underneath. He was ready to pull the mask away, to show her. But – what if she couldn't love an ugly man? She was flawless. He was grotesque.

Before the thought could paralyze him further, Christine stepped forward and leaned into him. Her fingers gripped the back of his head and pulled his face to hers for a kiss. Her lips were tender, even as they brushed against the lower edge of his mask. Her tongue followed, tasting his lips and then pushing gently into his mouth. At the press of her tongue to his, he moaned into her mouth.

"I love you," she repeated before closing her eyes and kissing him again.

At her declaration of love, he pulled back the edge of his mask, exposing his face to her kiss. She groaned her approval but kept her eyes closed. She continued to kiss him, bumping her nose against his and letting her fingertips graze over the rough flesh of his left cheek. He cringed at the touch but relaxed as her palm cupped his cheek.

She pulled away from the kiss and opened her eyes, slowly, as if to give him warning. As her gaze caught sight of his the mashed and distorted side of his face, her eyes widened. Despite the surprise, she kept a neutral expression. While she hadn't shown disgust or run from him, Erik was uncomfortable under her scrutiny. She was so silent – what was she thinking?

"I'll put my mask back on," he said, lifting the accessory to his face once more.

"It's your choice," she said. "But, Erik, never feel that you have to hide from me. I love you. All of you."

"Thank you, thank you my love," he replied. What gratitude! What admiration he had for her, this lithe singer with her green eyes and the purple streaks in her dark hair. Holding her in his arms, hearing her say that she loved him – he'd never felt happiness like this.

"Let's get out of here," she suggested.

"What about the rest of the band? Your father?" he implored.

"They can wait," she decided. "I'll text Nadir to let him know that I'm taking you on a tour of my hometown. After all the drama and awkward moments with the band in the last couple of weeks, I don't think he'll mind."

"No," Erik said, recalling his friend's prediction that he would fall in love with Christine. "I don't think he'll mind at all."

Feeling bold, Erik leaned forward to kiss Christine once more, savouring the feel of her soft pink lips crumpling under his. This. This was perfect.

"Let's get out of here," she whispered as she pulled her face away from his.

"Do you have somewhere in mind?"

"Actually, I do," she replied. "I want to show you the street where I grew up."

"I can't think of anywhere I'd rather go."

Hand in hand, Christine and Erik left the concert venue, taking the rear door into the alley. Seeing a crowd of fans gathered on the street in front of the building, the couple followed the alley to a side street and walked several blocks before hailing a taxi.

* * *

I've already started writing chapter 27 and have begun sketching out a new project that's loosely related yet based on a true story.


	27. Chapter 27

A/N: My apologies for the lengthy delay. I have no real excuses, only a new job, a new partner and far too many veterinary emergencies. But I'm back! With Chapter 27 in tow.

Hope all of you are enjoying the summer holidays. Out of curiosity, how many of you are on Tumblr? I'd love to follow you.

As always, I do not own the rights to Erik (Phantom), Christine, Nadir, Raoul or Meg.

* * *

Chapter Twenty-Seven – Monday, July 25, 2011

"Andrew Warner, ex-vocalist, unleashes secrets from the Fifth Cellar." _Iron Hammer Magazine_. Vol. 12, Issue 85. July 24, 2011.

The Fifth Cellar, the UK's premier power metal act, has seen some dramatic changes in its line-up over the past several months.

Last year, frontwoman Carmen Guidicelli was dismissed from the band and her letter of termination was posted to the band's website. Guidicelli was replaced this spring by Canadian newcomer Christine Daaé, a classically-trained soprano with no touring experience. In the last month, bassist Edward Gladstone and vocalist Andrew Warner quit the band; both musicians cited escalating difficulties with the group's reclusive keyboardist Erik Desrochers as the reason for their resignations.

_Iron Hammer Magazine_ writer Mark Simms caught up with Warner while he was on vacation in Los Angeles following his recent split with the band. The singer was reluctant to discuss rumours of a relationship between Guidicelli and himself, but became passionate when describing the band's creative process and the reasons for its recent difficulties.

IHM: Welcome to Los Angeles, have you been here before?

AW: Yeah, The Fifth Cellar stopped here a couple world tours back and I expect that what's left of the band will be holding to their planned gigs here this fall. It's a great metal town, LA. So much of the American scene came from here – GnR [Guns n Roses], that whole glam metal thing, David Lee Roth. Big bleached hair and tight trousers. That whole crazy shit, you know?

IHM: The Fifth Cellar is scheduled to play in the city this September. What can we expect from the group, after so many line-up changes?

AW: [laughs] Not much, really. I hate to be a cocky bastard, but you can't expect the band to be in top form after losing Carmen, Edward, and me. Christine's a fair singer, but she's still learning the fan culture, the stage moves. And without a frontman, they'll have to change their whole routine. Either get Christine to carry them, or find some other bloke to step in.

IHM: Couldn't Erik Desrochers replace you as the band's frontman? He took that role in the band's early days.

AW: Yeah, he did. And it was an awfully good publicity stunt, I reckon.

IHM: Publicity stunt? Can you explain?

AW: I prolly shouldn't be telling you this – label's secrecy and all – but I did most of the writing and the studio work while I was with the band. Having Desrochers on board as "the man behind the curtain" got a lot of attention from the critics when the band was starting out. After I was hired on, the label wanted to keep him on, to keep some of the mystique, you know?

IHM: You're telling me that you've been The Fifth Cellar's primary songwriter for the last three years?

AW: I am.

IHM: Amazing. What's it like to write songs for The Fifth Cellar? How do you come up with your albums?

AW: It's a bit cliché, really, but loads of my ideas come from dreams. Just the other night, I had one about Alice in Wonderland as an amusement park. There was a batty old woman running about with a big clock and a bunch of theme park goers lined up to ride The Rabbit Hole, which was a big coaster. I think it'd make for a good album concept.

IHM: If The Fifth Cellar was largely your project, why did you choose to leave?

AW: It was all too much, y'know? Desrochers was keen on keeping a tight grip on everyone, doing the same sort of albums over and over, and I wanted to do something new. To expand creatively. It was almost impossible to get any new ideas through the band and the managers. Carmen, she's always shared my vision for what The Fifth Cellar could be.

IHM: There has been some speculation amongst fans on Twitter and Facebook that you've become involved with Carmen Guidicelli. Is this true?

AW: That's no one's f-ing business! Shite. Does anyone ask you who you're shagging these days? I expect not. Don't ask, don't tell. The Americans have it bloody right.

* * *

Christine had read enough. Frustrated with Andrew's lies, she crumpled the article and lobbed the rough paper sphere into the nearest trash can.

Two days after the Montreal show, Richard had handed copies of the article to each of the band members. In stunned silence, the four of them had read through the interview. From his seat at the front of the tour bus, Nadir swore loudly in Persian, a language only Erik understood. The composer had declined to translate.

"That bugger!" Michael muttered from the back of the coach. Before picking up the article, he'd been tapping away at a practice pad, perfecting rhythms for a composition Erik had begun to work on that required dozens of shifts in time signature. After reading the interview, the drummer's sticks had thumped harder, letting the practice pad feel the brunt of his frustration.

Only Erik was quiet. His fists were tightly clenched and Christine knew that he would carry the afternoon's tension into the date they'd planned tonight. The tour had brought the couple back to Toronto – the city of their first kiss, where it had all begun – and, after tonight's show at the Opera House, Christine had planned to take Erik to an unassuming restaurant in Little Italy.

After the show in Montreal, Christine was craving more time to explore her changed relationship with Erik. In the Quebec capital, the new couple had stayed out for most of the night, ducking in and out of coffee houses and strolling through darkened parkettes. They'd ended the night in a well-worn pub on Rue Saint-Catherine where they'd shared stories and confessions between sips of hibiscus-spiced craft beer. She'd lost count of the number of times they'd kissed and held hands.

A blissful interlude. And now this.

"What are we going to do about this rubbish?" Nadir asked, looking to Erik for an answer.

Erik remained quiet.

"Tell it all and tell it fast," Christine supplied, recalling the mantra her father had repeated during bouts of negative media attention. "We tell our version of the band's history. A tell-all of sorts. We've got the label's backing, right Richard?"

"Of course," the manager sniffed. "I suppose we could share some of the early material we have –sound tests, audition tapes, contracts and the like. You'd have a good legal case – for libel and defamation – but I don't know if it'd be enough for the fans."

"Wouldn't be enough?" Christine repeated, not understanding. The record label had everything they needed to prove that Erik had always led the Fifth Cellar's creative efforts. Erik was the composer, the designer, the wizard behind the curtain...

Behind the curtain. Christine understood now. "Without Erik onstage, some of the fans won't buy it. They'll think it's part of the ruse."

"Exactly," Richard said, looking to Erik with anticipation.

"I won't do it," the composer said, clenching his hands into fists and rising from his seat.

"But, Erik!" Christine cried. "You'll just let him steal credit for your work?"

"If that's what it takes to keep my privacy, then yes," he answered, stalking towards the back of the tour bus.

"Wait – let's discuss this," Richard said.

"Don't follow," Erik answered, ending the discussion with a low growl.

Christine didn't understand. She'd seen his face. He was an ugly man to be sure, but they weren't asking for the audience to see his face, just the performer. Just Erik. He could wear his flesh-coloured mask if it mattered so much to him. The fans would love him – who couldn't, she thought – and their performances would be spectacular. The Fifth Cellar would play its best shows yet, unencumbered by Carmen's shrill demands or Andrew's ploys to upstage the others.

Erik needed The Fifth Cellar. And, right now, The Fifth Cellar needed him.

Unable to accept a terse "no" for an answer, Christine followed Erik to the back of the tour bus, stumbling as the bus turned sharp corners near the city's centre. A particularly sharp lurch sent her elbow crashing into the side of Erik's bunk.

"Ergh," she exclaimed as a current of pain rippled through her left arm.

"What happened? Are you all right?" Erik asked, rising from his position on the bunk.

"I'm fine, just bruised," Christine answered, holding out her arm for inspection. Erik's cool fingers ran over her left arm and elbow, assessing the joint for damage. "I wish you wouldn't hide back here, though. It's a perilous business going after you."

"I'm not hiding," he said, keeping a loose grip on her left hand.

"Sure you are. You're hiding from the world, from the band, you're hiding from me. Let's talk through this, Erik. Don't shut me out."

"There's nothing to talk about," Erik protested. "You of all people should understand. You've seen my face. You know why I hide."

"No one's asking for you to reveal your face Erik. We just want you to take your place on stage, show the fans what you can do. You're so talented. It breaks my heart to see you ducking behind stage props when you could be at the front of the stage – with me – showing the world what you're capable of."

"Christine, I can't."

"You can, Erik, you've just decided that you won't."

"Christine," he whispered, grasping her fingers in a tight squeeze. "Please, let this go."

She considered his plea for a moment, weighing the consequences, both positive and negative, of letting Erik have his own way or of persuading him to leave the safety of the shadows. Their relationship was still new, and so many boundaries were untested. Having him perform onstage would be the best case scenario for the band and, Christine guessed, for Erik too. But, if she and the others pushed him too far, there was a risk of raising his ire and driving him further into the background, or out of the band altogether. The Fifth Cellar had already lost its frontman and its bassist. They couldn't afford to lose their keyboardist and composer as well.

And, if she was to be honest with herself, Christine was afraid to lose Erik. The new couple had only just begun to forge a fragile bond and to understand each other's motives and priorities. Calling Erik her boyfriend felt juvenile and the word partner felt terse and clinical. Erik was her mentor, her friend, her confidante and now her lover. She needed him, more than she wanted to admit. If she kept him close and didn't push, then perhaps, perhaps he'd let her linger in his life a little longer.

"You win this time, Erik," she said, conceding to him. "But, please, do give this some more thought."

The composer frowned slightly but pulled her forward and into his arms nonetheless. Placing her hands on his chest for support, Christine kissed Erik, moulding her body to his and sliding her hands upwards to wrap around his neck.

"I love you," he said, breathing the words into her hair.

"I love you too," she said, letting her attention stay with the arresting man in her arms and banishing all thoughts of the band, of Andrew and of the press.

* * *

Reviews are most appreciated.


End file.
